


Honeymooners

by LazBriar



Series: The Thief, The Spider, and the Hotel [6]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Adult Language, Anal, Biting, Breedin', Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fellatio, Foreplay, Gay, Gen, Hazbin Hotel - Freeform, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Intimacy, It's Time, M/M, Oral, Romance, Series, Slow Burn, Spider Husbands, Suckin' Spiderdick, This is getting pretty homoerotic, doggystyle, m/m - Freeform, mild bloodplay, seriously you're gobbling spider cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-01-30 20:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21433957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: Following the events of The Shadow, The Stranger, and The Angel, it's time for You and Angel Dust to settle down and think about the future. But of course, by settle down, the spider intends to live it up with a big honeymoon bash! What could go wrong?
Relationships: Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader, Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)/You
Series: The Thief, The Spider, and the Hotel [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286831
Comments: 51
Kudos: 96





	1. Honeymooners - Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello reader, welcome back! What you're about to read is the tail-end of my current works, taking place after the story events of SSA. Be warned, if you venture forward, spoilers for the latter will appear pecked throughout (or, you might not have context about certain things).
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy this next short series. Have a good honeymoon with your spider husband!

**Honeymooners**

** **

You wake up, and it’s not a dream.

For a brief, surreal moment you don’t recognize your surroundings. Fatigue makes you dizzy, unaware, like you’re floating outside of yourself. But soon all the shapes make sense, the colors shift into focus, the distant, muffled sounds of a chaotic city softly pour through a massive stretch of blinders. It’s home. It’s a room. It’s the room you share with Angel Dust.

You sit up in soft, pink sheets. The sweeping knowledge, the avalanche of realization, it collapses upon you. A warmth forms in your chest, a sensation you don’t know too well, so unfamiliar. But. . . it’s happiness. It’s joy. Because this isn’t like any other day. This isn’t the same kind of morning you’ve experienced over the past several months. It’s a new life, a new world. Because of him, your spider, your Angel. He’s not your boyfriend anymore.

He’s your husband.

You take a breath, hand going to forehead. You swing your legs to the side of the bed, noting said spider is absent from the room – though that’s okay. The weight of _this, _of _you, _is still so fresh in a blissful, confusing sort of way. Holy shit, Anon. Angel _fucking _Dust. You say it to yourself one more time: _he’s my husband._

That’s going to take a while. A long, long while in fact, to totally process. In ways, it seems like it shouldn’t be real, all things considered, not after what you experienced. And yet it is, as distinct as hard bourbon, as lucid as the air you breathe. You instinctively look at your right arm, flexing the hand. it’s not quite visible, but, there – embedded in your shadowy flesh – is the imprint, the mark of a Binding. In Hell, marriage is far too pure and sacrosanct a thing, of course. It’s punishment for those Down Below to be attached to their significant half, so it wasn’t _supposed _to be a good thing.

And yet it was. It was the best fucking thing you’d ever felt in your miserable, awful existence, previous and this. You felt like you were _attached _to Angel, like your essence mingled with his. He was _with _you, even though he wasn’t. Goddamn.

But before you get too excited, a notable, phantom tingle brushes against your left side. Ah, fuck. Leftie’s gone. Much like your left eye which is now a blurry, muddled mess, your opposing limb is no long with you. Well, in fairness, it was never yours to begin with. When you came back after the events of Abaddon, part of him stuck to you, creating a surrogate limb. After his return of the Half, well, ah. . .

Hmm. You mentally flinched. You didn’t want to dig that up, not right now. But, events aside, a literal piece of you was out of the picture. It would take some getting used to, and you were going to need a new prosthetic. Back to square one, looked like.

But despite the loss, you felt so light, so clear, as though a weighted boot was yanked from your throat. The nightmares were long gone, replaced with, well, tranquility. A sense of safety and fulfillment and again, _joy. _Just a pure, unfiltered happiness because you were _with Angel Dust. _In mind, body, and soul. Fuck! It was amazing! And fuck!

It was also terrifying! How the hell were you gonna’ do this!? You’d never _been _a husband, not really. Annie was, well, Annie. But _this. _A whole new cosmos of feelings and responsibilities, it was. Were you ready? Hah, no, not at all.

You finally stand and get dressed, noting the absence Angel. What time was it? Your eye flicks to his clock, and _shit, _it’s nearly noon? The hell were you snoozing for so long? Awful. You wanted to spend your time with Angel now, something you could finally fucking do, so sleeping in was stupid. With some difficulty, you manage to get your suit attire on, or one of them. One arm makes it much harder, and you grimace when you look yourself over in Angel’s full body mirror. Not a great look, but a problem to address later.

Nuggets appears, gives you a welcoming oink and you oblige with head pats before heading downstairs. You’re eager – you just want to see your spider again. That’s all, really, you’ve ever wanted. It doesn’t take long though before you hear the sing-song melody of his loose, New York snark, echoing from the Hotel’s foyer.

“. . . and da’ way I seeze it, ya’ kinda’ owe us, Chuck!”

Ah, there he is.

“Are you _kidding!?” _And ah, there’s Vaggie?

You start towards the sounds. Oh. Already in a row and it wasn’t even lunchtime. That’s Angel, all right.

“Bitch, if I was kiddin’, you’d know. Or. . . would ya’? Can never tell, Vags, ya’ sense o’ humor is fuckin’ deplorable, neheheh!”

Closer. Now, here, Charlie’s chirpish tones countered. “You’re not being fair at _all, _Angel.” It’s married to Vaggie’s emerging growls and growing frustration.

And so you appear like a shadow, quiet on your feet. In fact, you don’t intrude _just _yet, you stay to the side, watching the argument unfold. Angel, in his familiar Valentino, keeps his arms crossed, staring down Charlie and Vaggie, his expression stuck with resolute defiance.

Oh, he’s wearing his hat too. Cute.

“Fair!?” he bellows, two extra arms wiggling about. “Ya’ daffy!? We’ze saved ya’ like, I’unno, a bajilion times! Dis’ whooole fuckin’ city of rejects n’freaks oughta’ be thankin’ us for keeping their keesters outta’, I dunno’, double-death!”

Vaggie growled. “You two were the _cause_ of it!”

Charlie huffed, rubbing head. “Nobody’s ungrateful, Angel, but. . .”

“Oh yeh? Where’s m’fuckin’ flowers an parade, den, eh?”

“But!” Charlie said, eyes narrowed. “Do I even need to _say _how many times you’ve broken the Hotel rules?”

You’re tempted to let this keep going but, you’re also curious.

“Maybe,” you finally say, walking forward. Not because you’re too interested in the conversation, but because of Angel. The moment you speak, his mismatched eyes swing to you and your heart _skips a beat. _The way he looks at you is amazing, and his beautiful face swims up to you.

It’s like he forgot he was arguing at all. “Baby!”

He rushes into you and it’s as though you’re both as light as a feather, as delicate as silk strands. You embrace him, you breathe him in, and you feel his arms encircle you, the other two sneaking around your waist.

Vaggie grumbles and rolls her eye. “Oh _great.”_

You kind of forget the Hotel exists. You kiss him once, and he smiles, and shit and fuck and fuck and shit it’s the best.

“Y’slept like a rock, pockets!” he says, face close to yours. “So cute, ya’ know! Didn’t wanna’ wake ya, heh. Mm. Heh. . .”

You smile back. “And I missed you already.”

“Ya’ _just _woke up.”

“Exactly.”

One more kiss. Just one more, enough to hold you over while you break the embrace, Angel stuck to your side like a bird on a branch. He returns his gaze to the pair, holding your right arm.

“Well, babe, maybe you’ze can help me settle dis shit, right now!”

Charlie sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Good morning, Anon,” she says, ignoring Angel’s comment.

You chuckle. “Miss Magne. Vaggie.”

Vaggie returns with a nod and a small smile.

“Angel, _please,” _Charlie says. “We appreciate it, but. . .”

Angel growls, glancing back to you. “Can ya’ believe dis shit!?” he says, gesturing at the two with an exaggerated wave.

“We’ze heroes, babe! You n’me! Yet when we wanna’ splitsville and fuckin’ celebrate we can’t even do that!”

You blink. Celebrate? “What do you mean?”

Angel redirects his attention to you again, fully this time, sincere and full of warmth. “I mean, Anon, our _honeymoon.”_

He quirks an annoyed brow towards the other couple. “Ya’ know, _honeymoon! _Cause’ he’s my fuckin’ husband now! Cause we got hitched!? Dat’s what people do!”

Hearing him say that _word _puts a wellspring of happiness in your chest. Holy shit, that’s right. _That’s right. _A honeymoon to celebrate your “getting hitched.”

“But these two eggheads, fah! Ya’ think after what we did, savin’ sinners n’shit they’d be all thankful like, but nah! They won’t let us!”

Vaggie growled, but Charlie raised a hand to quiet a potential outburst. “That’s not fair, Angel! We have reasons for that!”

Vaggie prepares to jump in with her girl, but discordant audio disrupts the conversation.

Static.

“Ohohoho, and what fascinating reasons might _those _be?”

A shadow pops into the room, shifting to a suited, snarling grin. The ever-familiar Cheshire smile of Alastor coalesces before you, brandishing his studio-mic, a roundabout of muffled applause accompanying his appearance.

Once again, Vaggie mumbles. “Oh _greaaaat.”_

Alastor looks between the two groups, waving a hand. “Why, don’t mind me! I couldn’t help but overhear a raucous and _had _to step in!”

“We have everything under control,” Charlie says, uncertain herself. Alastor – if it’s possible – grins wider.

“By the burning of my ears, you won’t mind if I don’t believe you,” he says, letting his gaze roll to you and Angel. The spider scowls, shuffling into your side, keeping a protective grasp around the left of you that _isn’t _like he's expecting Alastor might do something more than be a clever ass.

He studies you both. Then: “When my two favorite troublemakers are about, well, the results are always spectacular! If they’re up to antics, I say: let them!”

At first, the spider blinks, processing the words (and the fact Alastor abruptly appeared in his usual unannounced fashion). Angel holds his hands out now, expectant, realizing Alastor was _agreeing_ with him. “Y’see!? Even chuckles over here is on our side!”

Alastor laughs. “My sultry silk spinner, not at all! Sides are for squares and I’m too polished for that. But there’s _never _a dull moment with either of you, is there?”

You squint. Oh god, what is Alastor up to now?

“It’s fine,” you try to say and bring this affair under control. “No trouble at all! Really. I just want to spend time with Angel and. . .”

Alastor makes a wide gesture. “Of course you do!”

He slinks to Charlie and Vaggie now, making a feigned, sorrowful face, patronizing even. “Why Miss Magne, have a heart! Don’t we owe it to our lovely lovebirds to throw them a spectacular celebration? Why think of the shows, the music, the _entertainment _of it all!”

Angel bites. “Yeah!”

Charlie makes a t-sign with her hands. “Bup! Whoa, whoa! _Whoa! _No celebrations, no parties! That’s. . . look. . . it’s just not great timing!”

Alastor hocks a laugh. “But it’s the _perfect _time!” he says, appearing at Vaggie’s side, using her as an armrest (much to her fury).

He points to both of you. “The math checks out, doesn’t it? We’ve been spared the agitating aggression of one Abaddon and his sorry band of C-Listers! Oh, they’ve kept the stage going! And inspiration to us all! Two foul, revolting fetid souls, the worst of their kind, coming together in unholy matrimony! It brings a tear to the eye and bile to the throat, ahaha!”

You tilt your head, smirking. “Oh yeah? Fuck you too, Al.”

There’s a static-laced “oooh” emanating from Alastor, and he only chuckles. Vaggie takes a swing at the Radio Demon perched on her head, though he vanishes and reappears by Charlie now.

“Two for two is a decent record! A solid ratio, an impressive no-loss streak. . .”

He pauses, voice crackling. “Of course, they’re _missing _a star player. . .” he sneers, voice low. Neither you or Angel hear him, though Charlie does, and her eyes narrow.

“Don’t.”

He straightens his suit. “Oh, Miss Magne, you can’t blame a cat for tossing the yarn! But I digress. Let our lads in love get the shebang they want! What a dull affair otherwise!”

You know, while you can appreciate Alastor going to your defense. . . it’s _Alastor _going to your defense. His schemes always revolve around something falling apart. Someone has to trip and stumble for him to take interest to it, and if you plan a honeymoon, all you want, all you’ve _ever _wanted, is to spend it with your spider. You’d rather spend it here at the Hotel if it meant nothing bad would happen. Angel, though. . .

“Yeah! Listen to em’ Charles-in-charge! Dat sounds like a fuckin’ blast!”

You glance at Angel. Uh oh.

Alastor leans into it. “Glad you agree my climaxing comrade!”

Angel Dust snaps his fingers! “Yeah, _yeah! _It should be a goddamn’ fuckin’ knockout! I want every reject and scuzzball t’see me with my man! Set dis’ circus tent on fire! Blow em’ away!”

The spider grins, turning his predatory gaze to you. “Then _blow _you, ehehehe!”

“Whoa!” Charlie says.

_“Whoa,” _you say. “Hang on, _hang on.”_

People knowing about your honeymoon? With Angel? _Knowing _you were his husband and he was yours? That. . . that didn’t sound wise. Or even safe. Exactly how many people wanted you dead, much less the spider? And media saturation around here often ended in disaster. The eyes of Hell, looking at you, Angel Dust. Brr.

“No whoa!” Angel challenges. “C’mooooooon!”

He pleads. He turns his back to the others before staring into you, his eyes wide and wanting. Two gloved hands come to your shoulders, gently massaging your limbless left side. Again, just this, you forget the world exists, that you’re in a Hotel, because in this moment, with Angel Dust, nothing else matters.

“I want to,” Angel says, voice soft. “Please, baby? I wanna’ show em’ all my guy. _My guy. _I want em’ t’see how happy ya’ make me.”

His mismatched gaze wanders, going to the floor. He leans, voice low and soft, where only you can hear him.

“I wanna’ forget for a while.”

Either it’s instinct or the melding of your souls or both, but when he says it, you know what he means. A jag of realization and an indelicate hurt runs through your chest. Right, right. He’s talking about Ju-

You push the thought aside, fast. Not that, not right now.

You sigh, smiling at him. “Will this make you happy?”

You’ll do _anything _to see him smile, anything. He has but to ask. He nods, pecking your cheek. “Sure fuckin’ will.”

Well, that’s enough for you. You glance back to the others, and Alastor meets your gaze with a knowing grin.

“Hang _on!” _

Charlie isn’t convinced. She takes a long, steady breath, hands folded together.

“Look, Angel, Anon. I’m _happy _for both of you, I think what you have now is great and beautiful and a steppingstone towards redemption, but you can’t seriously think this is a time for, well, anything! I don’t. . .”

She hesitates, because she’s fighting to _not _say the wrong thing. Vaggie goes at it like a brick to a window, though.

“She _means,” _starts Vag with a hard gesture. “The both of you are _always _getting into trouble! When you go off and do _something _you put yourselves in danger! Or worse!”

Not wrong, not wrong at all, and frankly you agree with her. You’re content to stay here, at home, where it’s safe until you figure out how the fuck to be a good partner that’s, well, for the foreseeable eternity. But, dammit, Angel Dust wants something. And what spider wants, spider gets.

Charlie clears her throat. “Yes, and, um. You _did _take an heirloom, Anon. I _didn’t forget._ Er, and _yes _technically you did your job as Hotel Security by _technically _saving us from danger but. . .”

“They’re for sitting!” Alastor chides. He wiggles his fingers together, disregarding Charlie’s concerns.

“Oh, come now Charlie, must you be a fuddy duddy? There’s an easy solution for all of this, really!”

She crosses her arms. “What? By listening to me?”

“No!”

Alastor gestures to himself, head tilting. “Let me organize it all!”

Charlie’s face sagged and her eyes boggled. “You’re kidding me.”

The Radio Demon put a hand to his ear, as though listening for a sound. “Why, I didn’t hear a laugh! No, no, my dear, were I to tell a joke, you’d _know!” _

You gawk too. Alastor, planning anything? That sounds like it’ll end in nothing but trouble. Angel, on the other four hands, makes eyes, his features stretched with a wide smile.

“A fantastic, open yard gala with eyes and ears from every which way, that’s what I’m thinking!” continues Alastor, spreading his arms. “Oh yes, a star attraction, a true power couple for all to see! Angel, adult actor, now humbled and tied down – dare I say, _getting better?”_

He vanished, appearing between you and the spider, curling his arms around your shoulders, uncomfortably so.

“What’s more inspiring, Miss Magne? And I say, wouldn’t this sell your Hotel to all those daring doubters!”

You try to shuffle away but Alastor’s grip is quite firm. Meanwhile, at the words, Charlie blinks, and then her eyes start to _sparkle. _Uh oh. Playing up the idea that Angel was, in fact, getting better certainly would prove Charlie’s thesis to so many in Hell. After all, settling down was a good trait, right?

“And if you’re still not convinced,” finalized Alastor, “Why, the rest of you could come along and keep an _eye _on things!” he says, winking with his _left _one, glancing at you.

“Yeah!’ Angel throws in now, head nodding. “Listen to da’ spook! C’mon, sunshine! All dem wayward souls get to see what a good boy I am, riiiiight?”

Vaggie looks between Charlie and Alastor, dawning an expression of ‘oh no.’ It’s working. Charlie starts to hop on her feet, excited.

“. . .it would be a great demonstration of the Hotel’s therapy system!” she said. “And would there be singing!?”

Alastor withdrew his grasp, hands going behind him. “It’ll be a regular open mic night!”

You blink. Okay, hang on, it’s like a freight train of “oh fuck” and “holy shit” are hitting you. Open mic gala something in the middle of Hell? With you and the rest of the Hotel? Is that necessary? You look to Angel, and you _see _the hunger in his eyes, the want of it, the desire. The same kind he has when he wants to “make the scene.” He _is _the scene after all. But, Devil, you haven’t had much time to recuperate. Hell, you haven’t even given proper rites for Ju-

Grrr. You shove the thought aside again. Angel looks happy. You want him to be nothing but that. He gets what he wants, no matter what it is. And he said he. . . wanted to forget.

Well, not like your vote counted for much now anyway.

“It’s a deal!” Charlie conceded, hammering fist into her palm. “Oh, this’ll be great! Yes! Everyone can see how well the patients are doing, and there will be songs and music and wine, _lots _of wine, and. . . Vaggie! Isn’t this great!?”

She turned to her love, pupils as bedazzled stars. Vaggie forced a smile, answering through clenched jaw.

“Yep, _fantastic.”_

Vaggie looks to you, where you return with a helpless shrug and strained smile.

-*-

“There’s like, a million fuckin’ things I could try on!”

It’s a while later, and Angel’s head over kinky boots. His movements are light, joyous, and buoyant, hands strolling through inventory of various clothing. Mostly dresses. He goes through his vast armory of attires, licking sharp teeth, scanning for something _perfect. _Of course, that’s a fools errand, he’s perfect in whatever he chooses so far as you’re concerned.

You, in the meantime, are sitting in chair, overcoat hung on the furniture’s back while he simultaneously watch him and muse over the coming event. It’s uh. Big. Scary big. Alsastor “persuaded” Charlie to pen down a massive open gala, an outdoor event crowned on one of the city’s larger buildings. On said building top was something like a garden, or so you’ve been told, where the fancy and affluent gather. Extremely wealthy too, Alastor was eager to point out, like he was prodding you. Hmph. Well not _trying _to, he was, you knew it.

Couple of months ago? How exciting. How breathtaking. Ripe pockets, loose money, big scene. The perfect kinda score _and _a great place to build reputation. But now? The fatigue you feel from _all of Hell _has really settled in, especially with all the things that had happened. The losses incurred weren’t worth it. You just want to spend time with Angel Dust, that’s all. You don’t need or want anything else. And yet, you feel his yearning, feel that _drive _pour into you, your soul, like his excitement is creating a feedback effect into the essence of _you. _Probably has something to do with your Binding, shared traits and all that. You also see his desire to numb things, to distance himself from what happened, you see it pushing him into this.

He’s happy. But, you’re a little worried.

Hmph, you give yourself a mental scolding. Oh relax, you, everything will be fine. He’s just jazzed, that’s all. It’ll be fine, it’ll all be fine. Everything’s okay now. Bad guys gone, he’s with you, you’re with him. No crazy schemes or plans. It’s _fine._

“Oooo, how about th’blue!” Angel twirls with a beaming expression. “Or, no, no, wait wait! Uhh, lavender! Mmm, wait, scarlet onesie with da’ crimson choker and a wig, yeah!”

You focus on him now. “Everything gonna’ be all right over there?”

Fat Nuggets watches his master work, corkscrew tail wiggling.

“Tell me what’cha think!” says Angel, holding out a quartet of dresses. You blink, squinting with your right eye.

“Ah, well. . .”

You don’t get to finish before he’s flying through another set.

“You know Angel,” you say. “This might sound crazy, but I love you in the suit. You’d look good in an overcoat.”

He snickers. “Keh! Ya’ would say that ya’ uncultured palooka! Single eye of yers don’t got the magic sight like me!”

He paws through a jewelry box. “I love lookin’ pretty. S’bout that pop, ya’ know?”

He pulls free a few diamond chokers and an entourage of rings, scrutinizing them, measuring them out.

“Dazzle, baby, _dazzle. _Y’gotta fuckin’ blow em’ away, like I says!”

You’re not going to argue, but, “dazzling” is a lot of eyes, a lot of attention. Not an idea you’re keen on right now.

“Only if it ends with me blowing you,” you say, leaning back in the chair, hoping to catch him off guard. It kinda does. He flicks you a glance, chuckling.

“O-oho, dat so, wise guy? How ya’ gonna’ do with one arm, eh! You couldn’t even work the shaft! Takes two, ehehe.”

You’ll pursue this. “Is that a challenge?”

He pauses. “You really tryin’ to suck my dick right now?”

“You wanna’ find out?”

For a moment, Angel loses focus, then sneers. Then, a finger comes up, wiggling. “Ohhh no ya’ don’t! Ain’t fallin’ for dat! Ain’t ‘bout to get jizz all over the place.”

Rapiers out. “You’re just afraid I’ll embarrass you with the ol’ One Armed Joe.”

“Da’ fuck ya’ talkin’ about?”

“You’ve never heard the legend of One Armed Joe? Jacked off everyone with one hand so good he bankrupted a brothel?”

Angel Dust snorts, picking another entourage of dresses and tossing them on the bed, leaning a little (enough that the perk of his rump wiggles at you – on purpose or no).

“Yer’ makin’ dat shit up!”

You show your right arm and flex your fingers. “I’ll show you.”

Angel redirects this with a parry, tossing an object specifically at your left side. “Catch!”

You of course can’t, the object (some lace) falling to the ground. He laughs.

“And thus, d’legend of One Armed Joe beaten by a pair o’ panties.”

You chuckle. “Asshole.”

There’s a jeer of laughter from Angel while he finishes gathering a few things, though, it dies down when he turns back to you. He clears his throat, frowning, eyes going to your left side.

“So, uh, how’s that doin’?” he says, gesturing to the space of what _isn’t _you.

You glance at the stump on your shoulder. “Still gone, looks like,” you say. You don’t know if it will regrow, but, being that it was never a part of you, survey says: unlikely.

Angel forces a smirk, offering a weak laugh. “Hah, yeah, well, I’ze got spares for both of us, ahaha!”

“You’ll lend me one right?” you say, trying to join in.

“Yeah.”

A small pause.

“You know what the weirdest part is?” you say after a moment. “I still feel it there. I don’t get it, really. Like I’m trying to move a. . . well. . . I don’t know.”

Angel goes to his bed, flipping through his dresses, though he’s a bit distracted now. “It don’t hurt, right?”

You want to say it hurts because it reminds you of what you lost, that it’s a _reminder. _But you don’t.

“Nope,” you say, turning to him. “No pain. Just strange.”

There’s more silence, Angel’s wide eyes returning to his selection of attire. This seems like a good moment to talk before the event, right? Try to at least address the events of what happened, since you’re technically on the subject.

You breathe. “So, ah. I’m thinking after this Honeymoon, maybe we could you know, set things right. I found _his_ card and. . .”

It’s like you flipped a switch.

“HOLY SHIT!” Angel exclaims, tone shaky as an object falls from one of his dress attires. It’s a rectangle of flat white fitted with a screen. A Hellphone. He snaps it up immediately and fumbles with it in his hands.

“Dis’ fuckin’ thing!”

He’s essentially dashed away from what you were talking about, hyper focusing on the found object. Well, you’ll try later then.

“What is it?”

Angel tilts his head before smiling. “M’old phone! Agh, eesh, dat bein’ the d’facto word, this bitch is ancient, I look like a fuckin’ nanny with dis’ thing!”

You squint at the object. Huh. A phone. An old one. With. . . potentially old contacts and things. Huh.

“Just in time for the honeymoon, right?” you say with a forced smile.

-*-

The office is caked with dust. Holy shit, has it been that long?

You flick the lights on and a fan sputters to life, kicking up airborne debris. You cough a bit, gazing around at the family of obsolete monitors, spying your desk just as it was when you left it. Last time you were here, you were, well, leaving.

You won’t be around for long. Preparations are getting made for the outing and you need to grab a few things. You consider the Tec-9 briefly. Is that something you’re going to need? No, _no, _of course not. It’s all good now, it’s all fine, everything’s _fine. _Stop worrying.

You go to your disk and grimace at a glass ashtray and empty bottle of cheap reserve. Goddamn you went for the bad stuff, huh? Well, no need for it now, things were on the up-and-up.

Or so you thought, until the air trembled and a burst of static caught your attention. “Burning the midnight oil, my dear boy?”

You cough and spin, only to see the grinning figure of Alastor leering at you. “Fuck!”

Alastor tilted his head. “Anon, please, we’re on air, mind the censors!’

You take a moment to collect yourself, rubbing your nose. “Yeah, okay, right. Alastor, what the fuck?”

“What’s wrong?” he chided, striding towards you, glancing around the filthy office, taking a finger and striking it across your dusty desk. “Can’t an old friend check in on his bosom buddy?”

“I’ve got plenty of bosoms already, _buddy,” _you toss back. “And uh, normally when you check in, I lose something.”

He laughed. “Oh, Anon, I’m hurt! After all this time, you still don’t trust me?”

You groan, glancing to the side. “All right, _all right. _Sorry, I guess? What uh, what’s. . . uh. What the hell do you want?”

Alastor rubbed his digits, flicking away a puff of debris as he turned his attention to you. “Why, to see my fellow fiend on his way, of course! To assure that my personal investments continue to make another smash hit on the stage, ahaha!”

He tossed his arm. “You’ve really kept this place lively! Oh what antics, what _entertainment! _Oh, Anon, _Anon, _I’m just a watcher, the applause in the crowd!”

A muffled raucous of radio applause emerged from him. “I’m just stuffing myself silly with popcorn, you see!”

You blink. “Uh. Thanks?”

He waves a hand. “No, no, thank _you. _You see, my limp layman of linguistics, I couldn’t help but notice you’re short a clapper, and dear oh dear it _pains _me to see my stagehand, well, without a hand!”

You’re not sure how you feel about Alastor thinking of you as a stagehand, but, whatever, could be worse.

“That’s why, my dapper demon of departed digits, I’ve drafted you up a dowry!”

You rub your head. “Alastor, please.”

He laughed again, a thunder of audience applause erupting with him. “Oh, very well! Suppose I’ll spoil the soup. A little something to get you back on your feet.”

He gestured with open palm, a flex of shadow coalescing before him, pulled through the air like a long tendril. Then, the gooey mass started to writhe and form, carve itself into a shape, a definition. You watched, uncertain, taking a step back as the mass quivered with incandescent red, cracking into existence. Slowly, you watched it manifest into a recognizable solid, a length several inches long. A limb. An arm.

The blackish mass evaporated, revealing a cracked, fractured prosthetic, all too familiar. Your eye widened as realization swept over you.

It was the Arm of the Saint.

“I do believe this is yours,” said Alastor. His free hand snapped his fingers, the used limb vanishing and reappearing on your desk with an unceremonious _thunk. _You watch it rest there, still wearing all the scars of the past, the digits singed, a dull char mussing the metallic goldish hue.

“Nothing quite like the old and familiar, eh?”

You’re not sure what to think. “. . .how did you. . .”

The Radio Demon chuckled, waving his hand. “Friends on the other side, so to speak.”

Huh. Admittedly, you’re not as interested in _how _he got it back. Really it’s the why. This thing only got you in trouble after all and you’re not looking for a repeat. What, does he want you to steal some ancient artifact or arm wrestle a Nephilim? You’re good.

Or, uh, maybe he’s trying to be “nice,” in his own weird fucking way. Maybe you’re overthinking this. Hah. Yeah.

“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say.

“Think nothing of it!” he chimes. “Or, _do.”_

You’re not entirely sure what he means by that. In the meantime, you go to the desk, looking it arm over, considering. Hmm. You’re not interested in doing anything like the “old ways,” the Saint’s Arm was nothing _but _that. Then again, it could serve as a reminder, maybe, something to constantly keep you _out _of trouble.

Or, you know, get you in it.

Bah, Anon! Don’t be a sourpuss! It’s all gonna’ just be good times from here on out, yeah? Kick aside the grouch and let yourself breathe for once. Do it for Angel Dust, do it for your husband.

“Like an old glove, isn’t it?” added Alastor, watching you with intent. “That’ll even you out, yes? Can’t hug a hubs going solo, now can you?”

You force a chuckle. “Guess so.” You turn to him, conceding.

“I. . . appreciate it?”

He takes a step and bats you on the shoulder. “You can’t blame a fan for loving this re-inflatable Hindenburg, ahahaha! It’s the least I can do.”

Then, he mimes checking his wrist. “Oh, but egads, I’ve a little shindig to plan, don’t I? And _you’ve _got a Honeymoon to celebrate!”

Wordlessly he offers a wave and a grin, vanishing in the same dark mass he appeared from, the glimmer of his scarlet, static eyes the last thing you see. Could he always do that? As you turn to take the arm, studying it, you realize. . .

Hindenburg? Hey!

-*-

All the chaos is gone for a little while. All the mess and fractured pieces form into a single, recognizable thing of _sense _when you’re here, here in this room, this bed, with Angel Dust. It’s late evening, time for bed, held under the embrace of his puffy pink covers.

It’s kind of hazy, like you’re drunk on him. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like it’s real, like it _couldn’t _be, and yet, here you are. It’s all you need.

Around him is a collection of dresses he’s set out along the walls, while he glances at them from the bed. Your right arm is curled around his back, while the “Saint” is set aside. You’ll get to that later.

“You know you’re gonna’ have to put those back,” you say, meaning the dresses.

“Maybe I’ze make _you _do it,” he throws back, head on your neck.

“Yeah, you’re really going to let me mess with your fancy clothes? I’ll put them out of order. No color coding either, what with one eye and all.”

Angel’s eyes widen, gasping. “Ffuuuuuck. Ya’ right! Y’ain’t got no sense of color theory!”

“Black works just fine.”

“Booooring!”

You chuckle. “Pink and white is more your thing, peppermint.”

He offers a hushed ‘yeah, yeah’ before squeezing himself closer, heaving with a tired sigh, one that’s filled with happy relief.

“I can’t fuckin’ wait, pockets,” he mutters, eyelids closing. “Dis’ gonna be so fun. With my guy? Awh, da’ fuckin’ best!”

You smile, smooching his forehead. “Whatever you want baby, whatever you want.”

Spider gets what spider wants.

He yawns a little, murmuring. “Wanna’ go places with my husband.”

Same.

“Lffyoubaby,” he mumbles, fading.

_Same._

“Love you, Angel.”

But also. . .

You feel his breathing slow to a gentle, tired rhythm until sleep takes him. You glance at the blinders, where the chaos of Pentagram City dwells. That’s a “place,” and you’re not sure what to think of it. Hah.

But who cares what _you _think. It means everything to see Angel happy, it’s all you care about now. You want – no, you _need – _to be a good partner.

Everything you’ve done in your life, every decision you’ve made, every relationship, every plan, has ended in costly failure or catastrophe. It got you killed, it got you in Hell.

_Except Angel Dust. _He’s the_ one _thing you ever got right, and you mean to keep it that way. Whatever it takes, even it means throwing a noisy party in a part of Pentagram City for a lot of demons to see, some of which who may or may not have it out for either you or the spider.

But, hey, Lucifer’s Daughter and everyone else will be there? What could go wrong? It’s all fine now.

[Everything’s gonna be fine.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itIg_NtAbnk)


	2. Honeymooners - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the big event, you and Angel go back to "basics."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey reader! "Warning!" There's smut ahead. I mean a lot of it, I mean like this whole chapter is mainly focused on smut writing.

**Honeymooners – Part II**

If there was something Hell was in no short supply of, it was indulgent events and places to stay before said indulgent events. Despite your “difficulties” at ritzy spots like_ Paradise Found, _Pentagram City hardly blinked. If you needed it, it was there. The high class, the upper echelons of sinners, they _loved _their ways of hedonism and had no intention of letting it go. This translated to another nice place to say, a “home away from home” before the actual events of the honeymoon. It was nice. Kept together, overlooked the city, great views.

Good. Great.

Except. . . a sense of cold unease sits in your stomach. Not quite overwhelming, but there, lingering like a drop of poison in a lake. You feel exposed and _every _corner is an enemy. You want to spend time with Angel Dust – all of it, in fact. And you’d _like _to do it, well, in _private, _at the Hotel, at home, where the rest of Hell can collapse on itself or whatever the fuck it does. You’re not interested in all those lights anymore, in the “scene.” Desire for reputation, wealth, status, it’s cost you, and though you came out with perhaps the greatest gem of them all – the spider – the path that got you here has likely left you with a long, _long _list of enemies.

You don’t need, nor want, any of that anymore. You’re good on vaults, on high-stakes robberies, on existential nightmares and fiends capable of sundering reality. Can’t you just spend your time with what matters most – your husband?

But, spider gets what spider wants. And what he wanted _was _the spotlight, uncomfortable as it made you. Guess you understood, he’s always been that electric personality, a showstopper. A long career in porn, acting, and “comedy” did that, where all his validation as an individual came from an audience, or, a dick. Or both. An audience of dicks!

If it put a smile on his face, though, it was worth it. It always would be. You couldn’t imagine a more precious sight, and maybe you needed to loosen up. Maybe you _were _to stiff, and not in the way Angel preferred. You never had many chances to sit back and examine your relationship at all angles – everything was chaotic and clung together by schemes or _worse. _Maybe this was Angel too? Damn, if you just had a second to talk with him a while, you could sort it out.

Because there still things left unsaid, untouched. You fumbled in your suit pocket, pulling free the half of a burnt wax card: a Jack of Hearts. He’s in a better place, but still, it eats at you and. . .

_Oh, come the fuck on, Anon, relax! Enjoy things for a bit. Don’t dwell on this. Forget about it for now. Forget all of it. Just think about Angel. Be there for him, be what he needs._

Hmm. Yeah. Yeah! You stuff the card away. For Angel. It’s all for him now. You can do with a little R&R too, all things considered.

Shouldn’t be too hard, considering your surroundings. Charlie – despite her reputation as a silly girl with as sillier idea – is still beholden to her family name and that racks up a nice getaway for the evening. Alastor, too, has pulled the loom of endless strings he no doubt possesses, calling in favors, making deals, dabbling in his usual shady antics, no doubt setting up a Jenga tower of “oh fuck no.” But hey, it makes for sweet digs. Paradise Found tier, even. The room you’re sharing with Angel is a two piece with a living quarters and a bedroom fit with scarlet wallpaper and ominous furnishings, most decked out with eyes. A _lot _of eyes (seriously, what’s with all the eyes?). Lamps sporting alien hues of greens, purples, and reds are dotted throughout, giving the interior a demonic touch, but given that it’s Hell, that makes sense.

The other Hotel guests are lined in other rooms down the hall, making plans or prepping. Charlie, as far as you know, is organizing the rest of the details with Alastor. Both _insist _to handle it (especially the former), on both the premise it’s a surprise, and uh, so you and Angel don’t accidentally awaken any more eldritch evils. A fair trade off. All you know is that it’ll be an open courtyard gala atop the _Morning Star, _a towering building which houses a garden-like environment, a stage, and seats fitted for Hell’s “finest.” Lots of ritzy people are expected to be there. _Oh boy. _It’s also overlooking most of the city, and is a real “look at me” kind of fiasco. Oh. Boy.

You shudder. The only thing keeping you sane is-

The door swings open.

“Eyyyy!”

Angel Dust.

You sit upright on the bed. You’ve been resting a while, trying to get used to the _Saint’s Arm _again. The prosthetic is familiar, yet not, but at the very least you can move it around without much difficulty.

Your spider, on the other four hands, has been busy. He spreads his arms out, bags of clothes hanging off his arms, a puffy, _expensive _coat adorning his lithe frame, accompanied by a form hugging suit vest. He’s positively radiating with glee and wealth, sauntering in, kicking the door shut. Living it up.

“Hey baby,” you say with a smile. You admittedly feel your chest swell when you see him in _all that. _He’s looking good. Like, really, really fucking good.

Angel tosses the bag in a little pile, letting coat fall from his frame before casting you an excited smile. “Hey y’self! Been sleepin’ again? Haha, ya’ practically snoozin’ the night off, mister good times!”

“Sleep is pretty nice, Angel, try it.”

He snickers, flipping you off. “Fuck dat! We’ze just gettin’ started! Awh, pockets, I got ya’ so many things, ehehe, gonna’ make you fuckin’ dazzle out there!”

You tilt your head, curious. “Oh?”

He turns to you, nodding head. “Yeh! Oh, waitwatiwat, first though. . .”

He shifts, almost running to you, form light as air. He collides into your frame and you have to turn so he doesn’t hit the prosthetic. “Easy, easy, metal arm, remember?”

Angel’s not listening, kissing your neck, then your cheek. Then, his hand jams into his puff cleavage, whipping out a rectacle of pearl white. Oh. It’s the Hellphone from before, the one he’d apparently forgotten about. He presses his face into yours before propping the phone up, screen towards you both. Once again, he smothers you with a kiss, hugging your neck, grinning at the camera.

“Smile, bitch!” he said, clicking the phone. You blink, not quite understanding. There’s a sound and then Angel immediately starts tapping into the device with fingers, face almost manic.

“Eheheheh, first selfie with m’guy!”

Wait, what? First off, last time you checked he wasn’t so great with these things, and also, huh?

“Uhh, did I miss something?” you say.

He turns to show you the photo, wiggling the phone. In it is you and him, his beautiful smiling face and what appears to be a line of text, which reads:

_“FIRST PIC OF ME AND HUZ XOXOXO FUCKING LOVE HIM XOXOXOX MWAH”_

Awh, that’s sweet. But uh, there’s something else. This isn’t on just the phone, this is on what appears to be, fuck what are they called? Apps? Yeah that. For the other thing: social media. The worst words combined for someone like you who wants privacy with his spider.

He cackles, setting the phone aside. “Shit’s gonna’ fuck explode! Dey ain’t seen me for months, wahaha!”

You rub your head. “What just happened?” And who is _they?_

Angel spreads his arms, takes a deep breath, and sighs. 

He comes to your lips with a warm, wanting kiss, full of the same love and heat you’ve known for quite a while. “I just couldn’t fuckin’ wait to show off my man, hehe.”

Show you off? Huh. Well, the concept isn’t terrible but, the question remains: to _who? _The same cold unease gurgles from before, whispering a word: _everyone._

But, it’s quickly pushed aside by the proximity of Angel. He smells wonderful. There’s a fancy perfume clinging to his soft, snowy-fluff and there’s also a layer of his _scent. His _aroma. You can’t really put it to words, precisely, but it’s there. And that suit vest? Ah, damn, prudent clothing really goes well on him. Sometimes it’s what you _can’t _see.

“Well, I would’ve at _least _worn a collar,” you say, half-joking. “Guessing it’s for your adoring public?”

He snickers. “Wellll, they’ze gonna’ be _yer _public too, ya’ know. Gotta’ start with a bang baby, let em’ know the spider is wearin’!”

He shows his ungloved hand, where the serpent marking is, a faded, dark color barely visible through his fluff.

“I can see their faces now!” he continues, pressing hands to cheeks in mock shock. “_No fuckin’ way, is dat Angie!? _Bwahahaha, ahhh, s’gonna be great!”

His eyes perk. “Oh! N’Cherri! She’s gonna’ fuckin’ flip!”

You pause considering. Christ among the dead. Cherri Bomb? The public? The public of _Hell? _You don’t want to stifle his enthuse but. . .

_Goddammit, he’s your husband, you can talk to him._

“You think we’re moving a little fast?” you blurt out. It’s like a stone hitting glass. His smile freezes and he swings his eyes to you.

“N’huh?”

You hesitate. You sure about this? He’s really happy, overjoyed even. You don’t want to be a downer, at all, you want his happiness and for him to feel good. Actual joy, not the kind you get from a drug high or binge fucking. But. . .

You’ll try a different method. You shrug, smirking. “I’m just not ready to share you, I guess.”

He blinks, then frowns. “Awwwh. . .” his tone shifts now, going soft. “No, no, Anoooon, naaaaw.”

Here, Angel pushes himself atop you, hands to your chest. “Pooockeets. Y’ain’t sharin’ me! You’ze my guy.”

His other spare hands come to your cheeks, caressing them. “Ya’ think I’m gonna’ let them thirsty bitches get a hold o’ you? Ahahaha!”

“I don’t think I’m worried about me.” Your hands curl around his waist and his weight is sublime, how the curve of his rear presses against your abdomen. Ghg. You feel warm.

“But I _am_ worried,” you continue.

Angel’s spare hands leave your cheek, coming to the top of his suit vest. “’Bout?”

Ain’t that a waterfall of words? Everything, you want to say. About Angel, about the city, about keeping him safe, happy. About being a good husband. About _talking _with him, going over the past. About all the enemies out there, waiting. . .

“What do _you _think?” you say, giving a non-answer. _Flick. _Angel’s fingers trail down, unravelling his suit vest, popping buttons, ample fluff cleavage slipping into view. You notice – hard not to.

“Uh huh,” he says. “I _think _ya’ bein’ cute n’stupid again.”

The vest comes off, revealing his slim tummy, the pink splash of freckles adorning his frame, the curve of his cute shoulders, accented by black choker. His heavy, weighty chest fluff spills out, and frankly, he’s bigger than most girls you’ve seen (or been with). He’s beautiful.

“Ain’t nobody fuckin’ with you,” he says, sneering, tossing the clothing aside. “Ya’ think m’gonna let that happen, eh? Nope. No palooka’s puttin’ a finger on my wiseguy!”

You chuckle. “_Uh huh_. And what about _you?”_

Angel Dust pressed a hand into his chest, feigning shock. “Me!?”

His free arms spread, summoning a pair of Thompsons submachine guns, both an ornate white and gold this time. He holds them at his sides, grinning, wild pink eyes glowing. _“Bang-bang, bitch.”_

A compelling argument. No doubt Angel is capable, but. . .

He sees the hint of uncertainty in your expression, wiggling his hands as the weapons vanish. “Baby. _Baby. _Don’t. Fuckin’. Worry.”

His hips wiggle from side to side. “Yer’ stressin’ out for nothin! We gonna’ be fine! You’n me, we can fuck anybody up, yeah?”

Yeah. Yeah! Guess you can. His strength pours into you, as does his enthusiasm. As long as Angel Dust is at your side, well, you’ll take on the whole city if you had to! Not that. . . you _want _to.

He moves again, distracting your thoughts, and you twitch. Oh. “Mm. You can’t blame a guy for missing his beautiful husband, can you?” you say.

“Ya’ just sayin’ that cause I got my tits out,” Angel tosses back.

Heat’s building, and your blood is going hot. “If your dick was out, I wouldn’t be saying anything at all.”

You can see his cheeks go a faint rose. “That so, stallion?” He leans, coming to your lips, and the both of you hold a while, tongues touching, exploring, granting each other loving, hungry besses.

“Nffm, I missed m’bronco,” says Angel, so close you can taste him. “Missed ya’ a lot. . .”

Well, that’s all you need. You rise from the bed, clutching his waist with your right arm, letting hand roll down the dimensions of his smooth back, squeezing all the dives and curves. At once your mouths press together, mumbled kisses forming a quiet, passionate orchestra. It’s coaxed along with hunger, want. Want for your partner, want for him to feel amazing, beautiful. You want to restore the affection of sex with him, making it special again.

The dizzy heat rush of lust and love compel your words. “God you’re so fucking gorgeous,” you say.

Angel dust coos, forehead pressed to yours. “Real clever,” he says through his breath. “Nnm. Pockets. Pockets please, say somethin’ fer me, please.”

You pull him closer. “What? Yes, what? Tell me. Anything, _anything.”_

His two arms hang around you, minding your prosthetic, his white cheeks hot and pink. “Tell me you’ze mine. Tell me there ain’t nobody else! That you’ze my guy!”

The question almost stuns you. Does he even need to ask!? Of course you’re his! Always, always and forever. You have to laugh because it’s so needless!

“I am!” you say, asserting, kissing him between words. “Always, Angel, god. God I love you so fucking much. I’m yours. I belong to you, I always will. Nobody can have me but you. Bite me, Angel, mark me, own me, whatever you need!”

You clutch him so close, staring into his wide, inviting eyes. “_Now _who’s being cute and stupid?”

He sniffs, snickering. “S-shaddup, ahaha, f-fuckin’ prick! Ahaha!” Then, his hand drifts to your crotch. Big surprise, hard as steel. You’re uh, pretty goddamn horny for your spider.

“Fuck,” he says, voice harsh and smoldering. “Haven’t touched my stallion’s cock in like, forever!”

Not true! Not exactly. It’d been a while though. A week at least of which, by the spider’s standards, was indeed ‘forever.’

“Yeah?” you say back, voice raw and wanting. “Haven’t loved my spider in forever. The fuck we gonna’ do about that?”

You never want Angel Dust to feel like he’s only meat to you, that you only care about him because of his body. It doesn’t matter to you. The sex is great, but you only need _him. _That said, the both of you are _boiling over. _You want to hear him moan, to beg in ecstasy, to feel amazing, to lose himself in the afterglow of your coupling. You want every fucking inch of his body to light up in the electric, nerve-y pleasure of orgasm.

[Goddam. Just fuck _your_ spider and let him fuck _you_, already.](https://youtu.be/GAo82KUJr_A)

His extra hand glides to your crotch, digits squeezing around the dimensions of your hidden shaft, sending a wave of _fuck yes _spiking through your loins. He knows _precisely _how to squeeze, to touch, caress, and he does it with such skill, even through the barricade of your pants. He keeps your eyes locked into your eyes, but he knows precisely what he’s fucking doing. But. . .

_But._

You’ve got a different sort of desire forming, one that’s built up over the past months. It was never there at first, considering you’ve always been the ‘recipient.’ But something about loving Angel has stirred this newfound feeling, this desire. Were you even into guys before? You supposed, you never thought about it much. The point being, well, you _wanna be on your fucking knees _for Angel, at least now. It’s important he understands how much you mean to him. It is, you think, more important (right now) that he gets off. Him getting off gets _you off. _You’ve basically adopted his philosophy.

You growl, feeling a rush of heat take you. Wordlessly, you gently take his frame and swing him to his back, taking topside. But, it’s not for the reasons he no doubt thinks, expecting you to strip out of pants and fuck him raw. Rather, your hand and prosthetic race to his waist, unbuttoning the tight-fitting attire, snaring it by the waist and dragging down. You exposed his pretty waist, the curve of his supple thighs, and a slim “V” of black panties. A trail of pink colors his belly, hinting at a timid forest of pink pubic fluff, and for some reason, that just makes you _hungrier. _

“Nmmf, pockets, d’fuck ya’ doing?”

What indeed. “Fuckin’ sucking off my spider, the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”

Angel’s mismatched eyes boggle and his cheeks go a pinkish hue, as does his chest fluff. He’s not used to getting attention like this, but you’re happy to oblige. With loving force, you strip him out of pants, panties, and heels, revealing his slowly hardening shaft. Ngmf. You’ll get to that in a fucking second. He doesn’t resist, watching you with intrigued enthuse.

But you ain’t started yet. One arm cups a leg, revealing the smooth, soft flesh before coming to his spider-claw paws. Little arachnid beans. “Cute,” you say, running a finger over them. At once, he goes _hot pink._

“Nnnfm!? H-hey! K-knockitoff!”

You smirk. “No.”

You’ll show him some quick appreciation, being that – even now – he has a hard time reconciling with his little toe-beans. Still feels bad about them, and their hooked claws, but you think they’re adorable (and kinda scary in all the right ways). You kiss them, each of them, applying a little adoration to each, outright suckling them, massaging the accenting footpads. He’s always had trouble with these, an aspect of himself he couldn’t control, and it gave him such needless self-loathing. But for you? It’s just another element of perfection.

Angel doesn’t resist, rather gawks, watching you apply such tender smacks and kisses to the part of his frame he’s not happy with. He wiggles them, spidercock engorged now. Ah, good, it’s getting him going. You’ll make a mental note of that for another time.

“There he is. . .” you coo, your non-prosthetic hand going to his shaft and gripping, applying a gentle, caring squeeze along the inches. He slicks up pretty fast, a dribble of presex racing from his tip, allowing you to massage his flank with careful, methodic strokes. He wriggles a bit, gripping the sheets, grinding into your motions.

“Nmm, baby. . .” he growls, head tilting. You chuckle.

You’re not even getting fuckin started.

There’s a lot of wants swimming in you. The kind where you need to mount your spider, make him moan. But you _also _want him in a state of constant bliss. Nothing makes you happier now. Just relax, Angel, you’ll take care of him.

You’re no expert, not by a long shot. This is probably you’re third time genuinely sucking spiderdick, but hey, you _are _with a master, so, just follow what he does. You start at his tip, licking against it, getting a taste of his flavor. Has an interesting saltiness to it with a twinge of sweetness, but it’s less about that and more that it’s _him, _his essence. It’s also warm, taking you by surprise, though it’s easy to forget how hot flesh can be, even in Hell.

He quirks an eye at you, spare hands coming to your head. “You uh, y’sure ya’ know what yer doin’ pockets?”

“Ask me after you fuckin’ nut in my throat, peppermint,” you toss back. Damn, where’d that come from? Certainly not Angel Dust – not yet at least.

For once, the spider doesn’t have a quip. “W-w-ahahat? You. . .”

You quiet him with another kiss to his shaft, letting your tongue run across the side. Huh, not bad. Guess you can see where he gets a hankering for this. Hell, you let the inches rest along your face, letting it press into your shadow-y flesh.

“What’s the matter, babe? Not used to your husband working that cute dick over?” you say, chiding, much like he’s done to you and likely so many others. Interesting how playing the sub has gotten you so mouthy, no pun intended. It flusters him, and in a strange way, you have power here, while your effeminate partner is at the mercy of your motions.

“How’s it go again?” you continue. You kiss his tip, soft and slow, emphasis on the suckling, keeping your lips wrapped around the bellend. “Mwah?”

Angel’s legs tense, coming around your back, and you can _feel _the spider claws dig into skin through the shield of clothing. The sudden burst of hot pain doesn’t deter you, it just _excites _you. He wants this and he wants you, and it’s thrilling. Hell, his frame flushes a soft pink, his twitching flank trembling against you.

“What a good spider boy,” you say, egging him on. “Want your hubs to suck your dick dry, eh?”

He grunts. “W-whatareya, tryin’ to take my place?”

You quiet him as you slip his length into your mouth, letting it rest against your tongue. The rest is pretty straightforward. One thing you remember is to mind the teeth, keep your lips curled so they don’t race across his sensitive inches, but the rest? Getting creative.

“Hmmm,” you mumble, mouth full of dick. Angel’s neither too big nor large, a perfect fit as it were, and that’s good. Shit, you’re not gonna try and bury this fucker into your throat, you’ll leave that to the pro. But that doesn’t mean you won’t stop worshipping proper.

Angel offers a soft, but satisfied moan, as you begin servicing him. Each stroke of your lips and head incurs hot breaths, and you feel his claw-paws flex and scratch along your back. He arches, a sloppy orchestra of sucking noises escaping you as you keep his inches imprisoned in your oral chamber. You keep the tongue flattened, making sure to lick his underflesh with obedient care while your lips have him sealed nice and tight. You remember how nice it felt when he first did this for you, so goddamn, it’s only fair for your husband, right?

The spider cooed, practically squirming at your touch. Good. You started to toss your maw against him in slow rises and dives, making sure each stroke was tight and wanting. You kept your prosthetic on the sheets, letting your other hand roam to his tummy, petting it with massaging fingers. You remember he’s sensitive in some places, how there’s a little packet of nerves on his right side, just below the ribs, and you touch at it, hearing a small gasp.

You pop him free, grinning. “Thaaaat’s my princess, my spider.”

Angel glared down, face hot, a dapple of sweat running down his forehead. “Don’t fuckin’ stop!” he growled.

Well, that was good to hear. Meant you were doing a good job, yeah? Spider gets what spider wants.

You clamped down once more upon his root, grumbling as you did, vibrating the sensitive inches with your voice as you stroked upon him. You’d release, kissing his tip, his sides, even his fluffy spider stones, whatever made him feel good, whatever part you could appreciate. Not your usual song and dance but hey, you wanted to show Angel you meant everything, and you were happy to switch for his pleasure. Hell, you could feel _yourself_ getting bothered down there, if only because Angel’s moans were like music, his whimpers and mewls for more like a blissful chorus giving you an indirect sense of ecstasy. Maybe it was the way your souls had merged that did it too.

You hastened, dropping the pretense of words, outright slurping. You felt Angel Dust’s fingers touch and play over your head, rustle hair, hold for life as you chuckled, tugging for his peak. Once you got the hang of it, the fellatio was satisfying. Not easy, exactly, it almost went into your throat and you had to be wary of the gag reflex, but your tongue and lips did the job well enough. Like cracking a vault, it just took time.

“Ahhnnnnn!”

Ohoho, there it was. Angel’s form practically radiated with a pinkish glow, and you felt his lithe frame spasm, twitch, wriggle. His cock shivered and _bam, _like a gun shot into your mouth in a few ropes of his issue. His testes tensed and, yes, as you thought, _you got a fucking mouthful of spider jizz. _Cute. There was an indistinct taste to it. Not exactly salty or sweet, but also, salty and sweet? There, but not. Odd texture too.

Well, like you fucking said, he nut in your throat, and you _swallowed. _

Angel shakes, mainly because you’re still _on his cock _after the orgasm, an afterglow of intensity that hurts. Ultrasensitive and all that. You torment him for a _moment, _if only to make him whine and cry out, before releasing him, eyeing his drippy flank.

“Hahah,” you chuckle. “_Do I know what I’m doing?”_

He offers a sweaty, hazy grin, flipping you off. “F-fuck you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

He stares at you, in a fit of disbelief. “Je-zus, pockets, d’fuck was that?” he says, a heated breath escaping him.

“Is it so hard to believe I wanted to suck my husband’s dick?”

“Nnf. Guess not.”

[He licks his teeth. “I want _more!”_](https://youtu.be/ESIKf_wtLnM)

You blink. More? Ah, well, a round two isn’t out of the question. But, he starts to move, shifting position. “I fuckin’ need m’stallion,” he groans.

Brr. _Need _is a powerful word. Everybody wants, but need? To know that you’re desired, that Angel wants _you_, is a strong, all-consuming feeling. Of course, he’s beautiful and pretty and handsome and _everything _to you, but. . . to be longed for by _him_? Demanded? Ah, shit, it makes you happy.

You lift away from Angel as he swings around, going to knees. He pushes his rump into view, the plump, white curves popping out like a pearly apple, speckled with pink dots. His spare hands come to his cheeks, spreading them, hands forming a pseudo-heart shape around his awaiting ring while his head looks between legs, gently wiggling his backside.

“Fuckin’ breed me!” he yelps, whines even. Your blood goes _magma _hot. You’ve heard him say this before, and it has the same effect, veins igniting like flashfire.

His lust addled mind swims with hungry, searing, voracious words, the kind that come ripping out when your body goes from zero to _fuck _in seconds. He might’ve hit his first peak, but hot damn he’s ready to go again, and you’re getting there too, fast.

“Fuck a whole family of spiders inta’ me!” he continues. For the briefest of moments, the context takes you off guard, considering what happened. Maybe. . . he’s coping with it this way? Or, maybe you’re being an overthinking dimwit and need to give into the needs of your spider. Yeah, that. Because you wanna’ breed him like a bitch boy spider too. Fucking princess needs to be mounted and claimed, or so the animal of your adrenalin-soaked mind says.

You’re out of your clothes fast, flank springing to life in the cool hotel room air, your regular hand coming to his smooth, supple rump, squeezing it. He’s a little more generous here now, like he’s been _working _on it. He whimpers at your touch, pushing into your grasp, that enticing, winking tunnel teasing you on.

“Hang on, hang on,” you rasp. “You brought it?”

Angel makes an angry impatient sound, but knows what you mean. One of his hands shoots out to the nightstand, grabbing a small bottle, throwing it to you. Lubricant, a necessity.

“Hurry th’fuck up!” he whines. Easy spider, easy.

You quickly get a dollop of the slick liquid and massage it along your inches. Lust aside, literally the worst idea is plunging dry, that’s just asking for a bad, painful time.

Once you’re shimmering with lubricant, you toss the bottle aside with distracted indifference, taking position behind your spider, letting tip rest against his back, your length running between the slick grasp of cheeks. Warmth, heat, proximity, it’s all driving you a _little _mad, and Angel’s wiggling hips don’t help. He’s got that hole spread and he’s aching for you, like you him. You grip his waist with your regular hand, letting your prosthetic hang to the side. You can’t imagine it’s comfortable to be held by cold metal, so, this will do.

“N’GOD!” Angel roared. “Will ya’ stop fuckin’ around and get that dick n’me already!?”

Your envenomed brain is tempted to say a hundred different things, the kind of dumbass words crafted by a mind focused on fucking. But, you resist. Actions are better, anyway.

“Whatever you want, baby,” is all you can manage. Whatever he wants.

You grip your root and carefully slip in, inch by inch. There’s a strained pause where Angel’s breath catches, his ring gripping your pike with wet tightness while his backside embraces you. He whimpers, gripping sheets, chest puff shoving into sheets, glancing back at you with enthralled pants. You groan too. The tightness is nice, as well as how easy and slick things are, but what really gets you is _him. _Just. . . binding like this, being with him, inside him, as one. Doesn’t matter how sordid the affair is, this is the fucking best.

You pull back, then push in. The slow, steady rhythm of grinding swings begins, the toss of hips as your thighs collide into Angel’s generous rear. Once again, he’s been doing _something _because his rear is far plumper now, enough there’s a satisfying _smack _each time you impact his inner ring with your motions. As you hasten these swings, long, rattling moans emit from your spider, rising in pitch along with the growing intensity of having his hole worked over.

Angel’s not content to _just_ take it, though. He throws himself back with your humps, crashing and wriggling his hips into your thrusting loins, choking your prick with his motions. The reciprocation gets you _going, _and you respond in kind with harder smacks and heated groans. Your arm comes around his slim stomach, leaning, chest pressing to back, because you need to be _close. _You need to feel him, caress him, love him, letting your lips brush against his neck while you grip him tight.

His soft, hot fluff tickles your flesh and it’s _so _good. The language of both of you has subsided, replaced by the grumbles and purrs that appear only when two lovers come together (literally). One of his free arms curls around your neck, bringing you close, hanging on, a silent but subtle indication of _I want you, keep going, please._

Yeah, you don’t need much else. Your momentum rises in furious gusto, because it’s been a while and he’s wrapped around you _so perfectly, _like you were made for each other. It’s not long until you collide into orgasm, bucking, shaking, _trembling, _the intensity of the peak shaking you. All you can do you is hold onto Angel Dust with desperation as you bury your blade in him, empty yourself, pour your essence into his spider boy pussy.

“Gggah!”

Angel hits his peak soon after with a little help from your gripping digits, his cock throbbing to life and bursting in thin ropes of white. You hold him while he does this, breaths mixing together, the buzz of a heady afterglow overwhelming you both like a shot of good whiskey. Angel Dust is glowing a hue of pink, clenching your inches to milk every drop of seed you’ve got to offer.

Again, you kiss him, neck, cheek, shoulder, breathing him in, savoring his scent. His paw-claws curl, hand rubbing your head, leaning head so you can angle your besses, peck his cheek.

“Baby,” he says with hot puffs of air. “Nnnffff. . . need a little more o’ dat. . .”

More? All right, more.

You pull him close again, letting him sit in your lap, hold him for a while. Hold, because the afterglow is still there, and it’s exquisite. You pull free from his ring and a trail of sex dribbles free, but who cares, the sheets aren’t yours anyway.

He turns, facing you, curling his arms around your back. Again, you both meet with kisses, while you stroke his back with doting caresses. One of his palms comes across your back, feeling where the claws tore flesh, and we winces

“N’shit, cut a little hard,” he says, making a face. You shrug and laugh.

“You know I _love _it when you do.”

He chuckles. “Oh. Dat’s right. Fergot how screwed up ya’ is! Ehehe!”

“I blame you.”

He grins. “Whattya’ expect, bitch? I’m addictive.”

“Then _bite me, bitch,” _you shoot back, meeting his snark with your own.

He purrs, licking lips. “Mmmf. N’fuck. Do we need a safeword?”

“If I pass out, you’ll know.”

His head throws back in a storm of giggles. “God, ya’ fuckin’ nutty palooka!”

Another kiss to him. “Shut up and do it.”

Oh, he obliges all right. Doesn’t take long before the hard edges of his fangs come sinking into your shoulder, and he gnashes _hard. _You hiss in exciting pain through clenched jaw, and it’s ecstasy, the perfect chaser to your snuggling. Next come his fingernails which scrape and cut and race across your back. There we go, Angel. You want to be marked, claimed, owned, mastered by him. This, to you, is one step away from getting branded. It’ll do for now.

The momentum returns, and soon enough you’re both thrown back in it. He shoves you to back, rides you, bounces hips, takes his bronco for a long night’s gallop. You take him lap, and you grind together, sitting up. each time you find a new position, and each time it sharpens the hunger you have for each other.

The sheets are a mess.

-*-

“Whew. . .”

You’re both in the hotel bathroom, cleaning up, running some cool faucet water to start handing the _mess _of yourselves. Both naked, of course. The haze of one more afterglow settles and it’s a perfect cap to the evening.

You wash your hands while Angel cleans some of his fluff, wiping off with a towel. He fumbles with the medical cabinet and gets Hell’s equivalent of some healing solution, tossing the bottle to ya.

“Prolly’ should get them cuts, hehe.”

You smirk, eyeing the blood crusted bite in your mirror reflection. “Maybe I won’t for a keepsake.”

“Do it ya’ twippy dipshit. Ya don’t want them infections, _sucks.”_

That’s actually not the worst part. Your eye is sore as shit. “This is worse,” you say, gesturing to it.

Angel joins you at the sink, grabbing some mouthwash. “Ain’t it? Don’t get jizz in ya’ eye, I hate it.”

“I didn’t think you’d _do that.”_

“Well ya’ didn’t swallow that time, dumbass!”

It carries on this way for a while before you both return to the bed. Well, you exchange the sheets first, as they're utterly ruined in a _mess _of sexual congress. Once the cleaner ones are on, though, you're back together, close, Angel Dust taking a satisfied sigh and resting on your right side and neck. One of his spare hands yanks a cigar off the nightstand, cuts it, then lights it before taking a long, satisfying drag.

He passes it to you. It’s no blunt, but whatever, same concept. “Thanks, peppermint.”

You both delight at the rich, flavorful nicotine which eases your bodies while you tug the blanket up, in full cuddle mode. It’s good. Real good. In fact, you feel lighter, less tense, less worried. You know, maybe everything _will _be okay. Maybe all you needed was some time, a good fuck with your husband, and a break. You think too much – like, _all the time. _You worry. But why? Everything you need is right here, right in your arms.

And what comes next is the best, even better than the sex. The talking. Just. . . talking. About anything. He’s your partner and he’s fun to be around.

“Still thinking about what you’ll wear?” you say. The television is on, cycling through late-night cheap porno flicks of which both of you aren’t attentive.

He gestures to the bag. “In dere. Fluff coat. Bitch got me a diamond studded choka’, too. Fuckin’ rings n’shit. Still iffin’ on the wig though, ain’t exactly lookin’ for waist-length, ya’ know?”

“Something wrong with formal suits? Honestly, Angel, you’re damn sexy in it.”

“Maybe fer _you, _dummy. I like bein’ pretty. I didn’t spend two-hundred smackers on foundation eyeshadow just to go all white n’bland.”

“Holy shit. Two _hundred?”_

He looks at you like its a given. “Duh.”

“That is literally a month of food right there. A month and a half!”

Angel blinks, staring at you. “Kinda’ garbage ass dogshit ya’ eatin’ for dat!?”

You shake your head, laughing. “That’s called survival, baby.”

“Ew. Gross. Gahd, fuck, speakin’ of, I’m starvin’!”

Well, you two did spend the last couple of hours performing rowdy, energy-intense fucking. It’s about thirty past midnight now.

You hug him tight. “There’s a little eatery down at the foyer, I think? I hear the food is actually edible, no spare limbs in it, twenty percent less drugs.”

He pouts. “Nooooooo!” says Angel, whining. “I don’t wanna’ get uuuup! Ugh!”

“Well, room service isn’t running.”

He frowns, making eyes at you. “Hmph. Will ya’ go get me something? Pleeeaaaase?”

“It’s late, Angel.”

He gets even whinier. “Pleeeaaaaaaaase! M’huuungry!”

_“Angel.”_

He pats himself. “My tummy hurts!”

“Oh my god, _alright.”_

He grins, dropping his feigned pain immediately, kissing your cheek. “Yeh! Thank youuuuu baaaaby!”

You grumble, tossing on some clothes. “Yeah, yeah. What do you want?”

As it turns out, something non-fancy, as in a burger or whatever they’ve got. You oblige though – spider gets what spider wants. Angel, in the meantime, snags his Hellphone and slams in a new social media update:

_“UGH SO HUNGRY BUT HUBZY GETTING FOOOD LOL YAY XOXOXOXO”_

-*-

You yawn, waiting for the order to finish. The foyer is pretty barren. There are a few lone sinners at the Hotel bottom floor, most of whom are grabbing a late-night coffee or heading out for the night. You could go for some right now, in fact, but you’d be up the rest of the day if that were the case, and there’s a whole goddamn honeymoon to celebrate.

You wonder what’ll happen, or what Alastor has planned. Or who will show up, even. Shit, anyone could, it was sort of open invite. The thought unsettled you, but you did your best to shake off the idea. Nerves, just nerves.

While you wait at table while the “meat” is cooked, a figure approaches. “Hey, asshole.”

Your eye widens. The tone and voice is _immediately _familiar. It’s rough, like cigarettes soaked in gin, and the last time you heard it was when. . .

No. It can’t be. It has to be a miracle. You spin to see the figure.

“Fuck you,” he says.

There, in a pale green suit, lean and tall, his eyes carrying a ghostly, faded white color, is. . .

“HOX!?” you sputter out.

He chuckles, his Doberman features stretching with an amused smile. He shuffles in his pocket, pulling out a Hellphone, studying it, glancing to you.

“So. You got fucking married? How long have I been gone?”


	3. Honeymooners - Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party's getting started. Old faces reappear.

**Honeymooners – Part III**

[He doesn’t seem real, but there he is.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YdW5-uJqCVY)

A flood of emotions rushes through you. Your throat catches, hot and tight, your stomach rages with anxious excitement, your breath goes tight, and your legs feel numb. The phantom before you is, well, no phantom at all, as real as he’s ever been, doggish features pulled with an amused smile.

“Hox. . . I don’t. . .”

When you last saw him – _really – _saw him, he was saying farewell. And, you’re here _because _of him. You’re _alive _because of him, able to spend your days with Angel Dust because he gave his life for you, for everyone. But fate had different plans, looked like.

“Something about ghosts and you look like you’ve seen one,” he tossed. “You’re half right, at least.”

What else can you do but rush over to him, hands going to his shoulders, holding, making sure he’s _there, _that he’s not some imitation. You’ve already had some bad luck with those. God, what do you even say?

“I’m so sorry,” you manage, almost breaking. “I’m sorry.”

He grunted. “Hmm, the melodramatics are still with ya’, I see.”

You stare at him. “How? How is this possible?”

He shrugs. “Complicated answer, so I’ll give you an abridged. If you could uh, let go of the suit?”

Well, you don’t, and instead, hug him. What else can you do? Spade – Hox, whatever he’s called himself, has been loyal to the end, for no other reason than a love of deeds, an affinity for reputation and professionalism. A veteran from a time you don’t know. You never realized how important he was until he was _gone._

“Whoa, whoa, easy Anon,” he says, taken aback. “Been gone longer than I thought, eh? Get hitched and you’re all sentimental-like?”

Joking aside, you feel his arm tentatively go around your shoulder, his fingers curling around the metal prosthetic. “Still didn’t get that figured out, looks like.”

You let him go, shaking your head. “It’s. . . it’s complicated.”

“Seems that way.”

You keep looking him over, uncertain. Is he going to fade? Or is he hiding a plan, an evil plan? Is this a trick? Your mind is swimming. Fucking hell, please don’t grin, you think, please don’t start talking like a lunatic.

“How?” you ask again, referencing his _existence._

Hox takes a long breath. “I’ll say things post-death ain’t all simple like we figure. It’s about as much as I can say. The rest is. . .”

He wiggled his hand in the air. “Murky.”

You don’t know how to feel about that. Relieved?

“You’re okay?” you say. “Please tell me this isn’t some fucking joke. I can’t do this again.”

Hox’s ears raise. “Again? The hell kinda’ soap opera you been livin’?”

He shuffled in his suit pocket, pulling free a cig and lighting it. “And I’m as okay as a dog in Hell can be.”

“Do you need help?” you say at once.

“Relax, kiddo. I got resources.”

You’re not sure _how _you can relax, not with this knowledge. Should you? Maybe, yeah. Angel’s been on your ass about it. Maybe you need to take a real breather, a step back. Hox is alive, or so it seems. That’s a good sign! It’s working out! Everything’s working out. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

When you don’t say anything, he chuckles. “So. Hitched?”

You offer a weak smile.

“Sonofabitch. To the porn star? Angel Dust? Goddamn, way to tie him down.”

“Other way around.”

Hox offers a hard, comforting laugh. You admittedly missed it, his dry, indifferent humor. Down Here that was an asset.

Someone clears their throat. You glance over to see a diner custodian giving you an annoyed glance, the order of burger ready. You swear, remembering. Your husband is hungry, and yet here Hox is! It’s a good distraction but, you’re torn.

“Shitshitshit,” you say, remembering said porn star. “Dammit, fuck. I uh, can’t stay, but, we gotta’ catch up, Hox, we _have _to. I was getting some food for Angel and. . .”

Hox raises a hand. “Say no more. You got schedules. Besides, I heard there was a big hullabaloo down the way, so I came pokin’ around, checking out this shindig. I even hear there’s some big names, too. Big fat wealthy names. Sly bastard, you schemin’ this?”

Scheming? Oh, he must think this is one big robbery, this outing. Maybe a few months ago you would’ve considered it. You chuckle. “Ah, no, no. I’ve retired from that. I’m done.”

Hox’s strange, ghostly-white eyes widen. “Retired? No fuckin’ way.”

You can’t smile at that. The weight of everything is too hard to pretend otherwise. Losing _him, _almost losing Angel, it’s too bitter, so you won’t try.

“I just want to spend time with my husband,” you say, like it’s a mantra. “I don’t need anything else.”

Hox clicked his teeth. “Hah, young love.”

He took another long puff of his cig. “Pity, easy score. Alcohol makes a mind soft and a pocket loose. You won’t blame me if I uh, keep my nose busy? Ain’t exactly royalty here.”

“. . I thought you said you had resources.”

Hox chuckled. “Said _resources_ like a tithe.”

Well, you’re not gonna stop your friend. Not like you care about the lofty “guests” anyway – it wasn’t your plan, and the fact word is getting around makes you uncomfortable enough as is. “Bleed em’ dry,” you say.

Another loud sound, a cough, the café attendant glaring at you. Shit, right, your spider was hungry.

“Look, Hox, I have to go, but, _please _come to the party. I’d want Angel to meet you, _really _meet you.”

He nods. “I’d never miss it. Oh, and besides, uh. . .”

Hox rubbed his neck, glancing from side to side. “. . .how um. How are the Bois?”

Raz and Daz. Haha, that’s right, you _almost _forgot. So, old dog was still sweet on them, was he? “They’ll be better when they see you again, I can say that.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Really.”

He smiles. “Damn good to hear, guess coming back wasn’t a mistake.”

You hesitate. The way he says this unsettles you. You realize asking him again won’t lead to a more detailed answer – at least not right now – but it makes you wonder. You saw him once, in the _In Between, _but not a version you care to remember. As for “coming back,” it reminded you of the Half.

“Hox. . . should I be worried about something?” you finally say.

A cig puff. “Nope.”

You’re not fucking about, friend or not. “C’mon, Hox. Don’t jack me around.”

“Easy, buddy, easy. You got nothing to worry about. Deals were made, and I gotta’ make good on my end, that’s all.”

Deals? Sounds like Alastor’s territory. “You getting fucked over by Al again?”

Hox looks to the side, staring at the café wall, like there’s an answer there. “I’d almost prefer that.”

“What?”

He chuckles. “Come on, Anon, I wouldn’t cause you problems. I got it. I get to paw around some deep pockets, so I’d say things are going my way. And it’ll be nice to see the Bois. I’m good. Appreciate it, though.”

Hmm. Perhaps you’re getting too uppity again, thinking too much, complicating the situation. You’ll take his word for it – you owe that to him at the very _least. _“Alright, alright. I trust you. I have to get moving though. See you again?”

He winks, clicks his teeth, shooting you a finger gun. “It’s a date, Romeo.”

This conversation is far, far too short for your taste and if you had a choice, you’d sit right here and talk the night away. You’re short on friends – true friends. You can count them all on a hand, most likely, and Hox is one of them. It feels too soon to head back up, but you can’t leave your spider waiting. God damn, so many things to ask, to say.

“I’m glad you’re back,” you settle on. “Hox. I am. I missed you.”

He nods. “Cute. But next time, bring a ring.”

You manage a laugh. “Maybe if things had worked out differently.”

He finishes his cig, stamping it out (to the aggravation of a demonic janitor). “Flattering. But anyway, feeling’s mutual. You better move, though, I hear that Angel’s got a short temper.”

He heard right. With a few final words of respect, you say a quick farewell and grab the food, returning upstairs. You feel dizzy. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s where you are, out in the middle of Pentagram City again at a building that’s like a massive “here I am” bullseye. Maybe it’s the disbelief you’re with Angel in matrimony. Maybe it’s the fact your dead friend is in fact not dead. It’s chaos, it doesn’t make sense. Only thing that does is your spider.

When you get back, Angel’s sitting at a table, thumbing through phone. His mismatched eyes snap to you when you enter and an expression of relieved glee takes him.

“Gah! Fuckin’ finally! M’hungry as a December dick! Giimme-gimme!”

He makes grabby hands and you oblige him, setting down the sac of food. “Ooooo, what’cha get?”

You sit with him. “Sorry baby. Got distracted. And you know, what you wanted. Something with a little bit of everything, yeah?”

Angel rips into the bag and yanks out the items, wolfing it down in huge chomps, his face soon mussed with condiments and flecks of meat. “Nnnnffrm.”

He pushes the fries toward you. “Yfff hffry?”

You laugh. “Angel, _Angel, swallow your food.”_

He does, and then blows you a raspberry, spare hand tapping the table. “Eat, bitch!”

You’re not even remotely hungry. “It’s okay,” you say. “You eat. Gonna’ get back to bed.”

Half the burger is already gone, where Angel wipes his mouth. You know, for how proper and managed he can be, goddamn, your spider’s a messy eater.

“If ya’ say so!” he shoots back.

“But don’t be all beggin’ fer food later!” he adds, snagging a fry and wiggling it at you.

You don’t know if _now _you should tell him about Hox. It’s not exactly a secret, but. . . agh. Later. Not right now. You need to process this, process _everything._

Once he finishes eating you kiss him on the cheek, and he returns with his own (messy) smooch. He’s not sleeping yet, but you certainly are, climbing into sheets, carefully unfastening the Saint’s Arm. Rest is needed. Tomorrow is a long day, one you’re not sure you’re ready for.

-*-

Angel grumbled. Shifted, tensed, arms wrapping around his puffy chest, fingers clutching, limbs curling. Around what, though? Nothing.

Nothing at all.

“Jnnnnrrr. . .”

His tired eyelids pulled open, greeted by the darkness of the hotel room. He shuddered, the haze of exhaustion fading, realization overwhelming him. He was grabbing for someone, hoping they’d be there, back in his harms, like everything was okay, like it was all a bad dream.

“Baby?” he whispered out, voice weak and pleading. No answer, of course. He wasn’t there. He was gone.

Hot pain choked his throat and stung his eyes. Angel brought a hand to his mouth, muffling himself. Late. It was late. He’d gone to bed an hour ago, a bit after his Anon had retired. Now? Some ungodly hour in the early AM. A lonely one, a one absent of his _son_.

No. NO. He couldn’t. Not that, god, anything but that. He pushed himself out of covers, throwing on a pink robe and snagging a box of cigs along with his phone, desperate to choke the thoughts away, the agonizing memory. He was quiet, glancing to Anon, seeing his husband lying on his side, nice and peaceful. Good. He leaned over to touch Anon’s neck with a soft, wanting kiss, then proceeded to the balcony, beyond the sliding glass doors. At once he lit the cig and took a long, hard drag. Shit wasn’t a starry white line or some good booze to get smashed on, but it was something. Goddamn he could use some rocker’s candy right about now.

A trail of smoke snaked from his lips as he leaned on the balcony side, staring at the long expanse of the city. Fucking hell, why’d he have to dream that? Why’d he have to remember? It hurt, it hurt so bad. Why? Why!? His boy was in a better place, so why did he feel this way?

No, no, _no_! No. Not these thoughts. Not right now. It was his fucking honeymoon and he wanted to enjoy it. He needed to, he _had _to. He rubbed his eyes with fingers and took another puff, finishing the cig off, fighting tears. He flicked the butt away, pouring back into his Hellphone. Well, at least this could distract him. He wasn’t so good with it except for a few features, and the social media aspect was nice enough.

“Smile for the camera,” he muttered, visage reflected in the quiet black screen.

It shuddered to life. He thumbed the app on to see his recent posts, noting the replies, likes, all that good shit. He was getting traction again, that was nice. He hadn’t messed with this for a long time, not since. . .

An abrupt sense of unease birthed itself in his stomach, something he remembered. Shit. Angel bit at his finger, a different realization returning. There was a _reason _he stopped using this Hellphone, and now, it finally came back to him.

Fuck. He went to another app, the message one. For a moment, he stared at the ominous icon, afraid to touch it. But then he recalled he was _Angel fucking Dust. _And he was fucking _married. _And that nobody, not nobody in this single dipshit fucking underworld was ever gonna’ mess with him or his Anon ever again, or he’d burn the whole goddamn carnival down.

But still. . .

He took a breath and flicked the app open. There, exhumed from its electronic graveyard of old texts, was the history he’d intended to put long behind him. And for a good spell it appeared he did. But he couldn’t shake the uneasy sensation that this was coming back someday.

He scrolled. He flinched.

There it was, a message dating back several months, tied to a name he never wanted to know again:

_WHERE. ARE. YOU?_

A surge of anxious, frightened fury overtook him. Angel was so tempted to hit reply, fucking bombard _him _with a piece of his goddamn mind. His thumbs started working in the words, teeth clenched.

But wait, wait, _wait. Wait._

Anon. Husband. Hubby. Honeymoon.

Fuck this. Fuck the nightmares. He was gonna’ forget this asshole, bury his past. Move on. Get over Ju-

He hissed with swears. More cigs lit, more cigs smoked. _Do not say the name. Don’t. Say. The. Name._

Angel looked back at his phone, pulling open the social media app again, typing a new post.

_CAN’T WATE 2 FUCKING GET CRZY C U ALL THERE XOXO_

He stared at it. In a few minutes, dozens of likes came through. A few replies. Some angry, some joyful, some weird.

It was good. Everything was gonna’ be fuckin’ great. Fine. It was all fine. Everything was gonna’ be fine.

-*-

“Holy shit.”

Atop the _Morning Star _was an improvised garden, like someone had scraped up a corner of a fancy park and placed it on top of a skyscraper. Lights of various colors draped over gilded, bronze poles complimented by naked statues of demons spitting water (or pissing it), while tables of expensive food and wine inhabited each corner of a makeshift courtyard. Set courtyard was infested with places to sit, a space for gatherers to mingle and dance, and a large state overlooking it all.

It’d be nice, real nice, if _it wasn’t filled to the brim with dangerous, affluent sinners. _You felt your chest tighten just looking at them, this pond of faces. So many eyes, so many names. It was a crowd, and you _hated _crowds. You felt small, your eye darting around, looking for a shady corner to stand in, to find solace in. People you knew was one thing. Time with the Family taught you how to chew-the-fat with old fuckoff mobster types. But these weren’t your people, these were strangers, and now, they were gonna’ see your face.

“I KNOW!” buzzed Angel, scanning around, shooting his arms out. “Look at dis shit! Hahah, dis’ is the FUCKIN’ BEST!”

He was at your side, dressed in fancy puff coat that went down to his hips, neck adorned with diamonds, silver around his wrists, positively sparkling. His makeup was done up too, the very foundation of his mascara and eyeshadow mixed with tiny bits of gold powder. And you? Oh he’d gotten you fixed. Your normally black suit was instead replaced with a sleek shock of shark gray, rings on your fingers. You’d make a goddamn Don blush, if you were out for attention. Which you weren’t.

He hugged you along, and already you could see eyes follow you. see faces lean into each other, make comments, boggle. Shit and fuck and fuck and shit. There was exactly zero thing subtle about Angel Dust, and his magnetism was attracting gazes like metal – just how he liked it. You?

_Anon. Anon. You’re doing it again. Stop worry you big stick in the mud. Nothing’s gonna’ happen. It’s all good._

Yeah. All right. You fought the temptation to channel negative thoughts, shoved aside your instinct of worry. Just relax. Breathe, and relax.

“. . .a rather drab affair, but still, better than the tiresome dullards at home, I’ll admit.”

Excuse you? You snap you gaze to the side, only to see a tall, lithe, towering demon dressed in an impossibly regal attire, eyes a deep crimson, features of an own, an accent clinging to his foppish mannerisms.

You didn’t even notice. Angel was walking with you, waving, simpering, laughing, soaking in the attention. To this guest, the spider beamed.

“Ey, I know you!” said Angel with a finger wiggle. “Big fancy bird boy!”

The “fancy” sinner sipped at his wine. “Stolas, you delightful reprobate.”

Angel blinked. “Rebofuckin’what?”

Okay, you’re not getting on first name terms with _whoever _this is, so you tug Angel along. “Thanks,” you mutter, pulling aside the confused spider, “have fun at the party.”

It’s _that_. It’s that kind of encounter turning your guts into cold soup. That fellow, and so many others like him, are oozing power. Why were they here, anyway? Goddamn, Alastor, you knew it was supposed to be an _open invite _but you didn’t know it’d be this bullshit!

Several times you were stopped, and Angel was so eager to show you off like a goddamn rolex.

“You’ve really gone up in the world,” said one particularly corpus demon. “Never expected to be rubbing arms with the likes of you.”

Angel cackled. “Same t’you ya’ fat sack a shit!”

Another.

“A hocker of pornography? Married? How utterly scandalous!”

“Who’da fuck talks like that ya’ dim Victorian bitch broad!”

Others.

“Angel, Angel, show me your tits!”

“Sorry babe, sa’ll VIP now, and you ain’t on the list, ahaha!”

You were silent for most of these encounters. Thank the devil you finally ran into Charlie who was dressed in an attire fit for a Sunday evening, Vaggie, Husk, and Niffty with her. Husk granted you a quiet scowl, and at his side was Niffty, who hopped in place, wearing a hat with a flower pinned it. She clutched at his paw, her single eye incapable of sitting still.

“There you two are!” chimed Charlie, radiating a positively nauseating amount of optimistic energy. “Ohhhhh look at you both!”

She ran up, squeezing you and Angel in an embrace, kissing your cheeks.

“Easy, Chuck, easy!” Angel said, smirking. “Don’t scratch da’ paint! Took me two hours t’get all nice!”

“Sorry!” she said, stepping back. “You’re both just so. . . oogh! Cute!”

Even Vaggie approved. “Not bad,” she said, form draped in a long black dress, a violet choker accenting her neck.

Angel nodded. “Same t’you bitch, ya’ lookin’ downright presentable tonight!”

She smiled, flipping him off, and Angel did the same.

Angel turned his gaze to Husk, laughing. “Oh fuck me, is that you, barfly, inna’ suit!? Wahaha, how drunk are ya’ right now!?”

Husk grunted, spat, wings flapping. “Not. Fucking. Drunk. Enough.”

Niffty seemed to realize the absence of said drunk, hovering in place. “Oooooooooh! Huskhuskhusk! I could get us something!”

He shrugged. “Sure. Fix yourself something too, eh’ Nif?”

You remained quiet, forcing a smile. _Force it, _goddammit. Wear that fucking grin and pretend it’s all fine. Everything is fine.

“You’re all looking good,” you manage to say. “Really good. Where are the others?”

By others you suppose you mean Alastor.

Around you, the crowd noise created a dull ambiance of chatter, clinking glasses, and eating. Now and again a spike of laughter would erupt, and you could only imagine the “jokes” told. About you and Angel, you think. What were they saying? Still, it did nothing to put Charlie ill-at-ease.

“Oh!” Charlie said, finger to chin. “Well, Alastor’s getting the band ready – or that’s what he told me! And the Bois, uhh. . .”

She took her hand, putting it over eyes, scanning the crowd. She brightened, pointing. “There! I think they’re catching up with a friend?”

A friend? At once you snap your gaze to where she pointed. There, in the distance of people, near the edge of the building, is Hox, still in his suit. But he’s not alone. No, Razzle and Dazzle are with him, and they look besides themselves. You have, in fact, never seen them this happy, _ever. _Their eyes are wide, glancing between the other, hiding laughter behind hooves, gaze locked to Hox, who shares their enthusiasm. He keeps rubbing his neck, looking around. He snaps his fingers, calling for a waiter, snagging a couple glasses of wine before handing it to the goatlings. He’ll lean here and there, share a chuckle, utter a few words. Huh. Wow.

_Wow_. Damn. Hox looks happy. _Really _happy. You know, you should try it yourself.

“Hah,” you say. “So he is.”

You don’t get much time to process the sight, because your spider’s pulling you along. He’s not content to stay in one place. “We’ll see ya’ after da’ party!” he hollers at Charlie, shoving you along.

Oogh. You want to get him to Hox, but the dog looks busy, and it’s hard to get your bearings here. You feel like a line in the sand, as though your feet aren’t on steady ground. In fact, it’s almost like you’re not with Angel at all, just the veil of _himself _that’s bouncing around the crowd like a moth to different lights.

More show up, more you can’t recognize. Then, there are others.

“This just in, I’m fucking amazed!”

A muffled voice pours out through the noise of the attendees. You turn, as does Angel, to see one Tom Trench and another grinning, malicious Katie Killjoy, both dressed for the occasion.

Oh fucking god. You don’t know if you should feel relieved or terrified.

“Eyyyy, Trenchie!” greets the spider.

Indeed, in a more refined attire, Tom Trench gives you and Angel an intrigued once over while his counterpart – Killjoy – looks, uh, well, like she’s prepared to skewer you both with her grin alone.

You, at least, manage a pleasant tone for Mr. Trench, considering how he helped back at Paradise Found.

“Tom,” you say, extending your non-prosthetic arm. “Good to see you again.”

Katie glares at your hand and then Tom, wearing a faux-smile. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re going to _touch that,” _she says. “I don’t want to want to feel contaminated by proxy.”

Tom gives a nervous laugh. “Uhh, ahaha, oh well, you know.”

You notice the “dynamic” here, dropping your arm. Angel does too, smirking.

“Hohoholy shit, Killies, I’ze heard you was a cunt’annahalf, but didn’t know ya’ put poor Tommy boy’s nuts on ice too!”

Katie, a wine glass in hand, drank her poison, crushed the shape, and promptly ate said glass. “Consider me not hearing what you just said my one-time wedding gift you little jizz brained side of yesterday’s spunk.”

She leaned. “You’re still standing because I’m rubbing elbows for prime ratings, not because I give a shit about this discount-Degrassi soap opera you two fuck-sticks are pulling off.”

Oh god, do they always have to try so hard? You’re tired of this conversation, and you can see Angel’s ready to _bite. _He’ll keep elevating until fists come swinging and you’re sure he’d love nothing more. He opens his mouth to say a few words, but you cut in. No guns, no fists, not right now.

“Yeah, yeah, nice to meet you to Cuntjoy,” you mutter.

She frowns. “What _was that?”_

You push Angel away. “Nothing, nothing. You have a great ass. Until next time.”

Tom stifles a chuckle. You can see he probably wants to chat but with his boss hovering over him, well, it’s a choice between getting literally split in half or _not._

_“OhyeahwellI’llfuckin’jamatommyrighupyasnatchandfuckin’yankdattriggeruntil-”_ Angel spits, shaking his fists as you lead him away.

You get your spider away _quickly _before he brings this whole thing from zero to bloodshed. He’s good at that. Sometimes it’s hot – well, it’s hot ninety percent of the time – but right now, not so much.

“Easy, peppermint, easy now,” you say, wrapping your arm around his slim waist, in that “I’ve got you” kind of way, where you keep your palm cupped right above his hip. It calms him down, thank the Devil.

“Pfft, lousy bitch,” he scowls, yanking a shot of brandy off a passing waiter and downing it. “Who invited her, anyway!?”

“I believe that was Alastor’s idea,” you say. “Open invitation, remember?”

You secretly hope this reminds him that maaaaaybe having Hell’s affluent all packed together is not the best idea. He doesn’t take, of course.

“Fah! Figured that fancy chucklin’ fuck woulda’ looked at m’guest list! Ain’t even recognize have these swingin’ dicks, ahah!”

When you two find a space that is distant _enough _from the crowds (and you use this term loosely), he gestures wide, amusing himself. “I mean, lookatdis circus act of fuckin’ rejects n’freaks, ain’t seen so many walkin’ stiffs in one place! Got dicks so far up their ass they’d probably sob jizz!”

You rub your head. “Goddamn, Angel.”

He bats your arm. “Aww, yeah, like you _really _ain’t thinkin’ the same?”

“. . .not as graphically.”

At least he seems to share a similar disdain for this overwhelming company. Maybe you could get him away from it?

“Could find somewhere more private, you know,” you offer. Angel laughs again.

“Ya’ kidding!? Dis’ is the fuckin’ best! I get to tell every palooka’ here to fuck themselves!? Aahahaha, s’better than pissin’ in their drinks!”

Well, so much for that.

He snapped his fingers. “Still, ain’t a party without. . .”

“YOU FUCKING SLUT!”

Oh. Oh no.

There’s a voice you recognize. The last time you heard it, she was wasted off her ass and you had to _stop Angel Dust from overdosing. _It wasn’t a pleasant night. And you were pretty sure _she _was the reason he’d gotten there in the first place.

Angel twirled, his face lighting up like fireworks, eyes widening as a silhouette of his fascination coalesced into view, shoving herself through crowds.

“EYYYYY, CHERRRRI, BAAAABY!”

You watched in bothered agitation as the two crashed into each other with an embrace, the mono-eyed demoness still in her usual overall attire, like she was fresh off the fight. Maybe she was. It hardly mattered the two hadn’t seen one another for a long while, going on a few months, they still clung together like perfume and a whore, excitement surging through them, stretching their features with grins and smiles. Well, at least Angel was happy.

“You puffy, prissy bitch!” she shot back, punching his arm, sneering. “Where the fuck you been!? I thought you _actually _died! For real!”

She stepped back, giving him a once over. “Are you royalty now!? What the fuuuuuck Angie! Deets, deets! What the _fuck!?”_

Angel buckled over with cackles. “Wahaha, nice to see ya’ too, bitch! Ya’ look like ya’ just finished turnin’ tricks!”

She shook her head. “Not like you, right? Are you seriously clean? The shit I’ve been hearing! Dude, _come on!”_

Here, Cherri finally noticed you. Her smile vanished. “. . .wait. Wait. I recognize this stiff. _Wait. Angel. _Are you still crankin’ his cock? Are you seriously yankin’ those hundies like an ATM!?”

You’d like this conversation to stop happening, but Angel throws a hand around your shoulder and yanks you into him.

“Ahaha, sooooorta. Hehehehe, wellll. . . dis here is my man, Cherri. Fuckin’ tied em’ down, ahaha! Caught me a live one, ahahaha!”

Cherri blinked, not understanding. “Hold on, what?”

Angel smashes his lips into your cheek, kissing you. “Husband!” he says proudly. “Dis’ is Anon, sugartits! He’s m’husband!”

Cherri’s single eye goes so wide it practically falls out of its socket. You can see it takes a while for this to process, like the words aren’t supposed to be assembled in a sentence like that. She laughs.

“Hah. Hahaha. Good one, _good one, _you almost fucking got me!”

Angel sneers. “Naw, bitch, if I was kiddin’ you’d be on the ground!”

Cherri stares at you, and you shrug. “Guilty as charged,” you say.

Cherri’s hand goes to her forehead. “Hooooooly shit. I. . . I. . . need a drink. . .”

So do you. Your opinion of Cherri is low, being that she’s a source of Angel’s old addictions, desires, and violent impulses. It’s a territory you don’t want him to return to. And, yet, he’s lighter in her presence, happier, practically shivering with excitement. Who are you to say who he can’t hang around?

Just. Smile. Just force a smile.

“I think we both do,” you say. “Baby, you mind?”

He glances to you. “Let you catch up?” you add.

Angel blinks. “Oh, oh sure! Yeh! Gimme’ one too, would ya’? Pleeeaase?”

There are waiters around just passing the stuff along, but it’s the thought that counts. “Of course. Cherri?”

She’s still dizzy. “Uh. . . yeah, uh, whatever. Fucking, wow, uh. . .”

The demoness stares at you, trying to assemble you in her mind, asking herself the how, the what, the everything. _How did you end up with Angel? _You can practically hear it.

“Be right back.”

So, you say. You need air, a moment, a place to collect yourself. As you walk away, you can hear Angel’s laugh cut through the crowds, hearing your name in his voice. Ah, it’s a special kind of gift, and you’re glad to be worthy of it, but also, _fuck you need to breathe._

Big crowds, big snobbish folk, the aloof and the esteemed. The worst of the worst. They remind you of the Family, the Genovese, the big gatherings at the big houses with the big fat mobsters and their big fat families all prancing around and muttering about deals and jobs and money. It’s like poison, how it clings to the air. You don’t want or love any of it. You prefer observing, watching, studying. In a different time, you’d scrutinize how they move, these demons, see how lose their hands were, find places to nip gold off a wrist. Now, you’re exposed, and you can feel enemies growing like weeds. Whether they know you isn’t important, they know Angel Dust, they know Charlie, and Devil knows they have scores they’re eager to settle.

You navigate through them, ignoring prompts for conversation. Alastor still isn’t here with the “entertainment” and you have no idea how that’ll go down. Probably bad. Just another problem to add to the pile.

You manage to find a space in the crowds that’s on the edge of the gathering. It’s odd, actually, because it’s like demons are actively avoiding it. As you near, you see several discarded wine bottles cracked to the side, drink pooling into the grass, while several plates of eaten food are lazily clumped together. The hell?

A voice.

“I told you it was him.”

A spear of cold terror runs through your spine. You know that voice. Small, delicate, feminine. You’ve heard it several times before, and every time you did it was an encounter that nearly left you did. You snap you gaze to its direction.

And then there’s him.

“Didn’t recognize. No stupid hat this time.”

There, crouch-sitting, is a leviathan mass of muscle, carapace, and insect, wide, bulbous scarlet eyes buried in a visage not dissimilar of both locust and mantis. Even prone, his frame towers above you, mandibles clicking together as a trail of visceral leaks from his maw. At his side is a table, and sitting on table edge, wiggling her legs, draped in a single black-dress attire, purple rose fit into her shock of short hair. . .

Is Sarin. Sarin and Sarakk.

All the noise around you evaporates. You get tunnel vision, your heart hammers, and adrenalin surges through your veins. A desperate fear grips you. They’re here, and if they’re here, people will die, because that’s what they do.

Sarakk, in the meantime, squints, antennae wiggling. “Nice to see you too.”

“You. . .” you say, voice hoarse.

Sarin wiggles her fingers. “Hiiiii! We finally get to meet in person!”

Sarakk yanks a bottle of wine, bashes the top, and starts guzzling it down. Sarin shimmies, dodging the raindrops of alcohol.

“Ak-Ak, please, messy. We talked about this.”

“Gurghurhbhf,” gurgled the Nephilim. He spat. “Well, you talk but that doesn’t mean I always listen.”

“That’s very rude.”

At once, Sarakk’s antennae flattened and he set the bottle down. “Sorry.”

Your teeth clench. These two. _These two. _They were working for HIM, they were the reason he was GONE. And now they’re here, threatening you, threatening Angel!?

What do you do? What do you even say? Buy time, that’s what. “Why are you here?”

Sarin’s unblinking eyes switch to you, her white pupils affixed, never once moving.

“Hey, the invitations said important demons only. Well, what’s more important than _this?” _Sarakk intoned, gesturing to Sarin.

“Besides,” he continued, biting a chunk of meat. “I have age on you lot, by what, a few thousand generations? Pay some respect, would you?”

Sarin kept her smile. “Ohhh, mister Anon, mister thief, we’re having some us time, that’s all! Celebrating our new freelance careers.”

. . .

What? What are they talking about?

“The bug and the head went missing,” added Sarakk. “Thought about turning this city into salt pillars to find them. You know, some of the classics, the simple stuff.”

“But _then,” _Sarin cut in, “I decided there was no need. Better to clean the slate, focus on a new project!”

The who and the what? These were all memories, memories you didn’t want, because they were so terribly close to him, to what happened.

“Buuuuut,” added the bun, her head tilting at an unnatural angle. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? Oh, we’ve never had time to dish, you and I! I’ve been meaning to for ages!”

Sarakk snorted, pointing at you. “Don’t get any ideas, funny man.”

“You know she’s here, right?” you say. “If you try anything. . .”

Sarakk blinked. “Who now? Oh, Lucy’s little spunkbeast? Or, is that what he’s calling himself these days?”

“What do you mean, Anon?” said Sarin with a tone of genuine innocence. “We’re only having fun!”

A grunt. “Oh, you think. . . hahaha.” The locust laughed, a gross, clicking, snapping sound.

“I suppose if you want, I could squish your dumb head, like a grape. What _would _you do about that, I wonder? That’s a big riddle, eh?”

“That’s not how riddles work, Akky.”

“Inny, I’m _trying_.”

What indeed. _What indeed. _What would happen if these two flipped a switch and decided to go Old Testament on this gathering? Would could you do? How could you protect Angel without relying on someone else? The Saint’s Arm wasn’t enough, and it’s not like you had powers or anything.

You look back to the crowds, spying Angel in the mess of it, also with Cherri.

“Oh, oh, it’s good we saw you!” chimed Sarin. “We were planning to stop by, but, seeing as how we’re on the market we _do _need a place to stay a while.”

You snapped back to them. What!?

“Technically you have to,” added Sarakk. “That’s how a hotel works, right?”

Sarin nodded. “We have no luggage, either! It’s a win-win. We just wanted you to know we’ll by stopping by soon! We can’t wait! We’ll be roomies!”

“Is the food good?” said Sarakk.

You gawk. This is a nightmare.

You open your mouth to say something, but a noise breaks your attention. The stage crackles to life, where all eyes switch to and voices silence themselves. In a burst of black flame, Alastor appears, gesturing wide, wearing a theatrical attire fitting of the evening.

“Helllloooo you dandy despots!” he hollers, static-laced voice intermixed with muffled applause. “What a terrible thing to keep you terrors awaiting! Tonight’s a special night and we’re lacking in entertainment proper, hohoho!”

Sarakk laughs. “Sinners on Sinai, is that Al!? Aghaghaghag! He’s so different now! Har, he got taller, HAR!”

Naturally, Alastor didn’t see them. Instead, snapped his fingers, an entourage appearing behind him. A band, in fact, of shadowy forms, shaped like gators and crocodiles beset with glowing stripes of green and pink, all bearing an instrument.

“We’re all here for a very special reason,” says Alastor. “But who cares! Hahaha, no, no, you’re here for a good time, and a good time you’ll have! Oh, the _entertainment!”_

Alastor’s head swivels, snapping his fingers again. [“Sing it, boys! Mimzy, my little songbird, give em’ a showstopper!”](https://youtu.be/m2mZVOd0jWY)

At once, a plump, short woman of grayish skin appears on stage with the Radio Demon, wearing a grin, offering Alastor a rather affectionate look. Accompanying her is the kick of drum, strum of guitar and bass, intermixed with violin.

“It’s Voodoo, baby!” said Mimzy, her sultry tones a sweet chorus.

Before you have time to process the literal genocide couple behind you, the music overtakes the gala. Even Sarin is enthralled, hopping to her feet and tugging at Sarakk’s wrist.

“Come on, Ak-Ak! Dance! Dance with me!”

The titanic insect grumbles but obliges, following his bun into the crowd, parting demons as they take to a shuffle. Sarin looks back, waving.

“We’ll see you sooooooon!”

You stare. What the fuck just happened? Did you enter another dimension where your worst fears came to life? No, no of course not, this is Hell, after all.

The music does little to settle your nerves. Goddamn, you need a drink. A drink, a room, and your husband, that’s it.

This couldn’t get any worse.

-*-

A long, overdressed car pulled by the building side. Figures stepped out, most of average size. But one, _one _in particular loomed over all of them, his frame draped in a suit, marbled fuzzy arms behind his back as his multiple, pale eyes stretched upward, up to the top of _Morning Star._

Someone was at his side. “See? I tolds ya’. Big pockets up there, we’ll make a killin’!’

Her voice was sharp, feminine, and accented.

“Hmm.”

A few of the others gathered around their leader. “You sure about this, sir?”

“We ain’t got much for guns.”

“Ain’t the Devil’s dickspawn there too?”

The massive spider quieted them with a glance.

“He’s up there,” said the leader, voice as grim as a drink in a grave. “Disgracing himself.”

“Bonus,” said the woman. “Get to pay that fuckin’ pipe-puffer back!”

The spider looked down. _“You. Will. Wait.”_

The woman paused, while the leader continued. “This is about family honor.”

A scoff. “Pfft. Sure, whateva’ ya say, Henry. I’m gonna’ make a _killin._”

She sauntered ahead of the group, a shotgun over her shoulder. “I got some catchin’ up to do myself.”

Henroin watched her. Curious thing. Like him, a creature of spite, here for similar reasons. Save, she didn’t have someone about to make a fool out of his line on a grand stage.

What would they say now? Henroin, siring two failures, his empire crippled. No, _no. _This would end tonight.

Angelo would no longer disgrace his bloodline, Henroin would make sure of that. Whatever it took.

_Whatever it took. _


	4. Honeymooners - Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head when an unwelcome guest appears.

**Honeymooners – Part IV**

Is it possible to be drunk on a feeling? Not the good kind of drunk, either, the nauseous, drowning sensation of _yourself_ swallowed up in a whirlpool of discomfort and unwanted emotions. Well, that’s where you were.

You splashed a dab of cold water on your face, rubbing it into the shadowy-flesh, washing out your working eye, _some _of the strain vanishing from your thoughts. A temporary relief, certainly, but not enough. Even here, in the ritzy gilded bathrooms of the _Morning Star, _you could hear the ambiance of the gala above, a miasmatic fog hanging over you. It trickled in like dreadful molasses, an indelicate reminder you couldn’t completely escape. Not the event and certainly not this feeling. When you dropped your hand, you looked at your reflection, face hard and set. You raised your prosthetic, tapping the glass with brass finger.

“Any bright ideas?” you ask the reflection.

You don’t have an answer, nor your mirror image. Because you’re dealing with a problem the size of a titan-sized bug and well, the affluent members of Hell, among things. It’s done, it’s out there now, they see you, all of them. They see you with Angel Dust and given how the latter has spent the last several decades giving them either an eyeful of his ass or barrel end of a gun, you can only imagine the trouble this could bring.

_Unless, of course, you’re overthinking it._

Are you? Sarin and Sarakk certainly didn’t skin you alive upon seeing you. It wouldn’t have been hard. They were _his _lackeys; they had every reason to. But they stayed their hands. Why? And, if they weren’t up to anything, maybe everyone else was just here to, maybe, _not_ cause trouble?

_If they’re not here to rend you or your husband apart, then maybe. . . it’s all fine._

That’s what you keep saying, what you tell yourself. That’s what you keep thinking. But every time you do, the distant noise of the gala leaks back in, sound and all, and you can’t help but feel a cold tremor of fear roll up your spine. Fear of what they might do, and fear of seeing Angel hurt. Hurt, and worse, because this lifestyle is digging into Angel’s old habits. It’s not hard to sense, after all. You’re both linked at the soul, you can pick up on things with him easier now, feel it, and what you feel is a barrier, a desire to put up walls around a _very_ specific thing. What better way than through the night-life?

You take a deep breath and sigh. Angel doesn’t want to face _it_, you know he doesn’t. But maybe you need to give him more time? Are you pressuring him too much? Devil below, why isn’t there a manual for any of this? You want to be a good partner. Give Angel what he needs, give him the happiness and life he deserves, but you want to protect him too, even from himself. It’s hard. Goddamn it’s hard.

For the time being, what else can you do? Go back up there, put on a smiling face, be there for your husband. It’s _fine. _

You leave the bathroom and head towards the end of the lavish hotel hall, towards the elevator, ready to weave your way back into the crowds. As you do though, a pair of footsteps catches your attention, along with the dull metallic _click _of a weapon.

“What? Ha, well, lookie what I found here.”

You spin to see a figure at least a size over you. At once, you register him as a goon, because after what you pulled at Arackniss’ manor, they’re easy to recognize. One of them, a lackey of the arachnid crime family. A spider of dull grey hair draped in a cheap suit carrying a gun leers at you, wearing a smirk. You don’t know him or recognize him, but like most of Angel’s family, he ain’t here for small talk.

He takes a step, squinting. “Yeah, _yeah, _I thought I recognized you! Yep, you’re the other half of that queer, ain’t ya? Just who we wanted to fine! Aww, that was easy! Hah! Boss is gonna’ give me a fucking raise!”

Boss? Raise? What the hell was going on?

“Listen, buddy,” you start to say, but this only angers the spider.

“Shuddit!” he barks, keeping the weapon trained on you. “No talkie. You’n me are goin’ for a walk. Gonna’ meet the boss, hehe! Don’t try and get all fucky with me, bud, these is Exterminator rounds, put you down for _good._”

You clench your teeth, raising your arms. Fucking hell, now this? Right now? Christ among the dead, this couldn’t get worse, could it?

_Of course it will, _you said to yourself. _You knew some bullshit was about to happen!_

As you muse, the goon approaches, keeping the weapon pushed towards you. “C’mon pretty boy, lets go say hi to everyone! Heh!”

You didn’t know what the hell this meant, but you didn’t like it. At once your mind strained for a series of ideas to get you out of this current predicament, but for now, you had to play along. You weren’t rightly worried about yourself, nor anyone up there, given that Charlie was here (and your husband), but, it was just another reason to dread what lie ahead.

Given how quickly this grunt appeared, the context of his statement didn’t process until you were marched to the elevator.

The boss? Did he mean. . .

-*-

“Well shit bitch, ya’ been livin’ it up!”

Angel cackled as he sipped on his third glass of wine, spare arms crossed while the other held a cig and his drink. Around him was the general humdrum of the attending high-class, _just _the kind of crowd he wanted. Next to him, Cherri, who continued to regale him with tales of her exploits. She’d been a busy bombshell over the past several months.

“Even got my own gangs now!” she said with a proud grin. “They _suck, _but imitation is flattery, or whatever.”

Angel chuckled again. “Betcha’ they’ze a real fuckin’ clown act, eh? I mean, you’ze a circus yerself, sugartits, I can’t imagine more than one of ya! Hah!”

Cherri gave him a playful shove. “Good thing you’re drunk or I’d throw ya’ right off the roof, slut!”

Angel waved a hand. “Been there, done that!”

He took a long drag of his cig before flicking it away. “Anythin’ good outta’ dem wannabes, then? Ya’ know, loot, drugs, dat kinda’ shit?”

Cherri tapped her chin, shrugging. “Eh, they call me queen and keep the garbage out of my turf. Good enough for me! Not that I don’t mind _fucking _up anybody who gets in my shit, but, nice when the help does the job too, you know?”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Pfft, no. I ain’t got a gang!”

“You should,” Cherri commented, yanking one of the waiters aside and pull off a glass of wine for herself before kicking him away. “It’s the tits.”

Angel glanced around, looking over the sea of individuals before him. Plenty of faces he didn’t recognize but goddamn they were sparkly with diamonds and gold. If he had a parade of _soldatos, _yeah, he could probably run this place. He did well enough flying solo.

But then. . .

“Psh, nah babe, I’mma one bitch act now. I gots me a man, he’s the only Don I need, ya’ feel me?”

Cherri drank her wine and cast him a skeptical look. “Oh come on, _really? _Like, this is just one big scheme, right? Same fella as last time? More power to you for bleeding his dick dry for cash but, when’s the next sugar daddy? This isn’t like you.”

For the briefest of moments, Angel’s smile vanished. He sipped the rest of his wine, tossing it. “_Look. _I says what I mean. He’s my hubs. We’re hitched, ya’ got it?”

Cherri rolled her eye. “Alright, you got me. Good prank, Angie.”

“It’s not a prank!” he snapped. “Fuck sake, Cherri! I’m bein’ straight up wit’ ya! Why’s dis so hard to believe, eh?”

She blinked, falling silent. “Well, given your reputation. . . you gonna’ blame me for thinking otherwise?”

Angel rubbed his temples. “Ugh, jee-zus. I know it’s been a fuckin’ minute but I’m serious! He’s my guy! I mean it!”

Cherri titled her head. “Hmm, all right. . . say I believe you.”

He squinted at her.

“So, what like, you’re done? With. . . all of this?” Cherri said, gesturing around her, referring to the city. “I mean, you’re still down to get fucking blitzed, right? We can still party n’shit? And hang out?”

Angel opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He blinked. He so desperately wanted to say “yes, of course.”

“Wha, I mean, like. . . I got. . .” he started, looking away. “I can’t just. . . runoff n’shit!”

Cherri frowned. She looked at her wine before pouring it on the ground. “Hang on, wait. You’re serious? That’s it? Decades of fucking things up and what? You meet some fucking guy and you’re out?”

Angel blinked. “It ain’t like that, babe! Just ain’t on m’schedule, is all.”

Cherri crossed her arms. “Huh. You know I gotta’ wonder where I fit into this picture of yours.”

The spider winced, gesturing with all four arms. “Oh come ooooon, don’t get like dis, you’ze my bestie! Ya’ always be my bestie!”

She scoffed. “Yeah, okay. ‘Bestie,’ but you didn’t tell me about this fucking skeeze until now. You’re ready to set up shop with some stiff and drop everything, even though you, what, knew him for a few months?”

Angel stamped the ground with his boot. “Dis’ ain’t fair! Ya’ ain’t bein’ fair.”

Cherri smirked. “Fair, huh?”

“Oh, step offit, will ya? Why’ze ya’ suddenly givin’ me so much shit?”

She stretched. “Giving people shit is what I do, _Angie.”_

Angel paused, looking her over. “Hmph. Sounds like you’ze is just jealous.”

Cherri cast him a look. “Bitch, _please.”_

Here, Angel crossed his four arms. “Please what? Ya’ sure ain’t happy for me, it sounds like.”

“Oh, fuck off, now who’s being unfair? I didn’t even know about any of _this,” _said Cherri, casting her arms wide, “Until I saw the goddamn post you made on _Twatter_. Like, dude, even for you that’s a cunt of a fucking move.”

Angel grumbled, teeth clenched. “Gugh, ya’ fuckin’ killin’ m’buzz. Ya’ know if I wanted a lecture, I’d stroll over t’blondie and get chewed out by her.”

Cherri pressed her hand into chest. “_I’m _a buzzkill?”

“Dat’s what I said.”

Cherri’s expression shifted, smirk melting, exchanging for a cross, hard look. She raised an accusatory finger. “Listen t’me you little fucking. . .”

_“HOLY SHIT!”_

Cherri was cut off by a loud chorus of gasps and surprised exclamations, a hush falling over the various attendees as their gazes shifted. Not the music, however, [Alastor’s band of tattooed demondiles continued to strum at their instruments](https://youtu.be/gsmAF9cVPm4). Angel looked too, his surge of fury switching gears, distracted from Cherri’s _about-to-say-some-shit _remark. The pair glanced as the crowd parted, making room for an entourage of new figures.

Angel gawked.

Not just an entourage of figures, a whole crew of familiar silhouettes, bathed in black and gray fluff, wearing various suits and coats, armed with a slew of firearms, among them the traditional Thompson submachine gun. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?” Angel shrieked.

There, in the distance, was a crew, the kind of people Angel was intimately familiar with, the kind he _hated. _He knew them, recognized their features, their clothes. It was his “family.” More specifically the soldiers directly under his _father’s _command. His. Fucking. _Father. _A term he used loosely, a technicality, if anything. If they were here, **_he was here._**

Even Cherri recognized them. “Hey. . . isn’t that. . .”

Angel wasn’t listening. Tunnel vision consumed him and an erupting storm of _violence _consumed his every thought.

_“_OH NO YA’ FUCKIN’ DON’T!” he roared, marching forward, shoving aside people in the crowd.

“Ya’ fucking dizzy twipshits gotta’ fucking deathswish!?” he continued, fangs bared. The crew spied him, weapons raised.

“THANKS FER SAVIN’ ME THE FUCKIN’ TIME!” growled the enraged spider, summoning an arsenal of weapons at his side. Not just his typical armaments, either, a pink AA-12 with scribbled hearts on its side would do just fine to turn the band of unwanted guests into _bloody fucking paste._

One stepped forward. “Hold on their sweetheart, yo-”

The speaker didn’t finish, his head turned into a rose of meaty chunks and blood, split through the center as Angel fired off a barrage of rounds. The others barked and prepared to return fire in furious retaliation.

_“Stop.”_

A voice settled them, while the crowd of onlookers shrieked and made space. Others, like Katie Killjoy, only grinned, a few chuckling with amusement.

One of the soldiers spun to gawk at the speaker. “Boss, are you fuckin’ _kidding_ me, he just iced Jonni and-”

For the briefest of moments, Angel’s fury vanished. He heard the voice, a low but commanding tone, recognizing it _immediately. _Only one man in his life held that volume, that revolting sound like warm oil mixed with burnt cigarettes, a noise haunting the back of his mind and the dreary corridors of his memories. That fucking guy, that piece of shit, that ruiner of _all of it. _Only this time, he wasn’t flipping the voice off from a stage, it was at his _honeymoon._

_“So he did.”_

The gang shifted, making space for the enormous figure, who stepped past them. His various, scarlet, beady eyes strolled over the crowds, wearing a frown, fluff hair ragged and swept, stinking of that awful whiskey and cigars scent Angel was so familiar with. An arachnid body was coated not only with bristled black hair but a matching overcoat, covering most of his enormous frame. Though he carried no weapon, he did not need it. His presence was enough.

There were intrigued murmurs from the onlookers, in such a way that gossipers might watch an unfolding soap opera.

“As I live!” one said, “so he _isn’t_ dead.”

“Thought he was gone,” said another.

“Looks awful,” came another comment.

He ignored them. Instead, leered at Angel, bearing down at him with those plentiful, cruel eyes.

“You might want to put those down,” he said, grousing at Angel.

Angel Dust stared. A maelstrom of emotions came over him. Indescribable fury, cold anxiety, fear, sadness. And rage. Mostly rage. Well, about ninety percent rage.

“You. . . _motherfucker. . ._” said Angel, frame trembling.

Henroin tilted his head. Wordlessly, he snapped his fingers, and at once his entourage of soldiers spread out and pushed into the crowds, training their weapons on the onlookers, shouting threads.

“Listen very carefully,” said Henroin, gazing at Angel though voice loud enough to be heard. “This is a good old-fashioned robbery. You’re all making a nice donation to my Family name. Let’s call it a tithe, a little show of _respect. _And, I know what you’re thinking, and before any of you gets any _ideas. . .”_

Another finger snap. This time, one of the goons approached, carrying a large device. Well, device was generous. Rather, it was a small hill of dynamite set to a ticking timer. It’s only contemporary addition was a wireless switch signal.

“I’m sure you’re all familiar with how explosions work. And mind, the powder’s been made with holy dust, Seraphic ingredients. It goes off, so do the rest of you. The guns, too, those are nice and _permanent.”_

More mutters, more uncertain whispers.

“You sound like you’re full of shit!” said a voice.

Henroin broke his stare at Angel to address the naysayer. “You willin’ to take that risk? How about you shut your goddamn mouths and fill the bags. Cash and jewelry will do just fine, thanks.”

He returned his eyes to Angel. “You still carryin’? Put them _down, _Anthony.”

Angel snarled. “DON’T YA’ FUCKIN’ USE MY NAME, HENRY!”

“Brat.”

He took a step towards the spider, who promptly rolled up his fancy sleeves, brandishing fists. “Ya’ wanna’ fuckin’ go, old man!? Ya’ savin’ me some fuckin’ trouble showin’ yer ugly shitface here!”

Henroin took a breath as his goons started around the crowds, who, with some annoyed supplication, began tossing in _some_ of their valuables. The larger arachnid ignored their grumblings. This was important, this would get his Family back on top, back to where they needed to be. The old Commission was gone, leaving a much needed vacuum. All he needed now was a “loan.”

“Even now, so disrespectful. Idiot.”

Angel’s fists clenched and his frame continued to shudder with violent quakes. The only thing stopping him from tacking into his “father” was the assortment of explosives unceremoniously dumped amidst the crowds.

“I’m not letting you disgrace our name any longer. I could tolerate your goddamn antics when you were on your side of the city, but now. . . after what you did with your brother? And then you think I’ll stand by and let this fucking celebration of your. . . urgh, disgusting. . .”

Angel opened his mouth to pour out another waterfall of swears, but a voice broke in.

“Ah, excuse me.”

Despite the intrusion, Alastor’s summoned band would _not _stop playing, as though in ceremony of Charlie’s approach. She appeared at Angel’s side, putting hand on his arm. Angel glanced down, his fury tempered as she offered him a reassuring smile.

The Devil’s Daughter then folded her hands together, walking up to Henroin, Vaggie not too far behind. “Pardon me. Uh, Henry, was it?”

Henroin snorted.

“Lovely, wonderful. Um, this is a little awkward,” Charlie said with a forced smile, “because I know technically this was open invitation, _thank you Alastor.”_

She looked to the side, where the Radio Demon stood in the distance with Mimzy, waving when she looked in his direction.

“But,” continued Charlie, **“you need to leave.”**

Henroin only responded with a short, cold laugh. “Hmph. Little runt, little upstart, little princess,” he started.

“I had a feeling you’d be a thorn in my side. This is a private matter. So, _piss right off.”_

Charlie’s eye twitched, flashing with a wave of scarlet. “Ahahaha, you’re charming. But, seriously, **_leave.”_**

Angel said nothing, looking between Chuck and his father, holding himself back from outright screaming and lancing into the older demon. Once again, Henroin snorted.

“Gimme’ some credit, kiddo, thought you’d try some bullshit.”

Charlie didn’t understand, not until Henroin gestured behind him, signaling for a duo of goons to approach. But these soldiers weren’t alone. No, instead, they were shoving along another figure. As they came into view, Charlie’s expression melted from growing agitation to terror. Angel, however. . .

“ANON!?”

-*-

You were pushed along with rough force, hand and prosthetic raised, on display for your husband and Charlie. The crew at your side kept you under watch, while the barrel of a weapon was lodged against the back of your head. A real bother, it was.

You see your spider, his fear, his concern, his wide, mismatched eyes trying to comprehend. Trying, because no doubt his evening had gone from euphoric to a post-overdose crash.

“Hey hon,” you say to Angel, voice stiff.

“SHUTTUP!” one of the goons bark, pelting you in the stomach with a hard bunch. You heave with a grunt and double over a moment, grumbling.

The outright _venom _of Angel could be felt in the air. “You_fuckinSONOFABITCHYOUTOUCHIMAGA-“_

Charlie stopped him.

“Smart,” Henroin commented, patting you on the shoulder, possessively. “Listen to the twit, brat. If it isn’t clear already. . . let me spell it out. You and any of your fancy friends try to save this troublesome fuck and we’ll put a canoe in his head. Understand?”

Angel’s fury vaporized, expression shifting from rage to renewed fear. He took an uncertain step forward, held back by Charlie.

“Getting the idea now?” said Henroin, maintaining his frown.

Though you’ve taken a blow to the gut, you can’t help but speak again. “It gets worse,” you say, tone dry and exhausted. There’s another smack to your head.

“Aww, darlin’, your flattering me!”

Like a collapsing Jenga tower, a voice accompanies the newcomers, sharp and feminine. It’s familiar, the kind of familiar no one wants, least of all you or Angel. But, striding past you, shotgun hoisted over her shoulder, wearing a satisfied, smug grin is Annie. Her eyes go to you and the gawking Angel, then strolls over the onlooking crowds currently under siege by the grabbing hands of Henroin’s crew.

“See?” she continued, look at the larger arachnid. “Told ya’ it was a worthwhile score.”

To say that you’re speechless in the face of all this is underselling it. What, actually, could you do right now? Fucking hell, that bug’s “riddle” plagued you. This situation was a powder keg next to a toppled barrel of gas and Angel (along with others) were a bunch of lit matches. Only question was, once the fire went off, who survived the flames? What would you do to stop it? The terrible answer: nothing – a harrowing realization.

In the meantime, Annie smirked, seeing the Angel. “Awwwww _legs, _so nice to fuckin’ see ya, bitch. We _really _gotta’ catch up! It’s been a while, huh?”

She sauntered forward, grabbing a convenient glass of wine from a nearby frightened waiter, and took a sip. You watched with growing agitation, irritated rage, trapped in the situation as she got close to your spider. Don’t you fucking dare. . .

Annie took a sip, then wiggled her glass at Angel. “Nice dress, I like the colors. . .”

She prompted tossed the remaining dark violet liquid, staining Angel’s attire. “Oops.”

Angel hissed. “YOU-“

“Ah ah, _toots,” _threatened Annie. “Don’t get all frisky on me or handsome over there ain’t gonna be so jolly. Also, grats on the weddin’. You poor fucker, you.”

She gestured to you with thumb. “Real fuckin’ skeezeball, him. You’ll see.”

Angel shivered, eyes starting to glisten with teary rage. “CHUCK.”

Charlie sighed, rubbing temple. “It’s okay,” she said, attempting to calm him. “Or, it _will_ be.”

She glanced back to Henroin, who remained unconcerned.

“Afraid you’re not getting the picture,” he remarked. “This is for my _family. _Anthony, _you _of all people should know what that means.”

Henroin looked to Annie. “Finish your business while I finish mine.”

Annie shrugged, sneering at Angel. “Suit yerself. Later, _babe,” _she said, wiggling fingers at the spider. She shoved passed him with shoulder, wading into the crowds to get her share of the score. Angel was frozen, caught between the desire to unload a torrent of machine gun fire into his father but unable to because of the_ predicament. _

Chuck was beside herself, keeping an eye on both you and Angel. “Mister _Henry. _You strike me as someone who has a lot of rage issues and you’re _clearly _expressing them in an unhealthy way. You’re not thinking clearly.”

She gestured around here. “Because I mean, are you serious? You’re pissing off some of Hell’s wealthiest. You sure you want to do this?”

Henroin ignored her. “Anthony.”

Angel raised his eyes, glaring at his father, that monolith of abuse and disapproval, staring into those same eyes that haunted him in life _and _death.

“Despite the _utter disgrace _you’ve been for. . . decades. . . despite the insult to our lineage, despite what you did to your _brother, _I’m still a generous man.”

Upon hearing this, you roll your eye. Oh god here it comes.

“You’re _still _family. And though looking at you brings me shame, you’re still my son. So I’m giving you a chance, Anthony. One more. Denounce your life, and this man here, in front of the eyes of the city. Abandoned this nonsense, come back to your family, take your place as the heir you were supposed to be. For once in your goddamn life, make me _proud.”_

Despite everything, a drab chuckle leaves you. “Man. You suck at this.”

-*-

One of the soldiers waded through the crowd, his extra hand holding a bag filled with trinkets and jewels. He chuckled to himself, quite satisfied. Look at all these dopes! Ain’t so powerful now! All it took was some fancy Exterminator weapons and they were practically on their knees! Wow, this wasn’t so bad at all. Pretty soon the Family would be back on top. Despite everything, they’d come back. And this time, there was no Commission to partition the power!

As he pushed through faces, some familiar, some not, he felt the weight of the back, juggling it in palm. Seemed like a good score. The other boys would be making bank too. That was it, right?

“Pardon me chum,” said a voice, pleasant and charming, kinda’ like what you’d hear on an old timey radio.

“Huh?”

The goon turned to see the speaker, but no one was there. There was a tap on his shoulder.

“But I think you forgot about _those _two.”

Again, the spider twirled, weapon trained in front of him. And again, he didn’t see the speaker. But what he _did _see was a couple he’d somehow missed. Granted, they were shuffled in the corner of the gala, obscured by lack of light, but _still. _How’d he glance over them? One of em’ was huge! Huh. Well, maybe that was his senses telling him about the duo, or maybe he’d acquired some brand-new power. Whatever, didn’t matter.

He strode towards them, snickering. “All right, lovebirds, you know the fuckin’ deal. Cash in the bag. Don’t try anything funny or the lady gets it. Fuckin’ spit roast her I will!”

He had to crane his neck up to look at the larger one, while the other was naught more than a rabbit with crimson eyes and alabaster fur. Aside from the dress she didn’t look fancy, or the other thing.

The big thing moved.

Sarakk’s head cracked like shifting bones, squinting at the intruder. “What?”

The spider grumbled. “What are you fuckin’ deaf? I said empty yer pockets or you’re both dead!”

Sarin wiggled her legs, sitting at table edge. “That’s very rude.”

Sarakk, in the meantime, leaned, staring the foe down. “You’re small. I didn’t hear you.”

The spider growled, shoving the barrel of the weapon into Sarakk’s visage. “Last warning!”

A sound imitating a sigh escaped the titanic insectoid. He gripped Sarin with gentle pressure, moved her to the opposite side him, _away _from the assailant, then stood. The goon, sensing a fight, prepared to squeeze a trigger, though hesitated when he observed Sarakk’s height.

“Uh. . .”

A snarling, mutated hiss escaped the insectoid, raising one of his legs over the goon. With sudden, profound force, Sarakk slammed down, utterly crushing the soldier with herculean strength. Gooey innards burst from the sides of the spider like cannon shots, sprays of spongy muscle spraying into the air like meaty confetti. The impact into the ground caused vibrations, a miniature quake, forcing surprised gasps from some of the crowd. A few faces turned to see the raucous, a mix of confusion and morbid entertainment.

Sarakk wiggled his leg free of the fresh _spider-gore-soup, _kicking aside the gun and bag of trinkets the now-dead soldier had collected.

“A little excessive, Akky,” commented Sarin, eyeing the fleshy puddle of _death. _The locust glanced back to Sarin.

“He threatened you!”

“I think he was threatening _you, _specifically.”

“Pfah!”

The chorus of crushed flesh and bone didn’t go unnoticed. Distant shouting voices saw the act, heard the sound, rushing over. More goons with more dumb guns.

“Holy fuckin’ fuckshit!” one of them barked. “That was Jimmi!”

“You sonofabitch!” one spat at Sarakk.

“Ice this fuck!” another ordered.

Sarakk groaned. He pushed Sarin behind him as guns loaded, preparing to open fire. “I’m taking my bun and going home.”

Sarin made a small ‘oh’ sound as she was moved, tapping the insect on the back. “We don’t have one, remember?”

“Mmrgh? Ugh.”

Sarin looked passed the insectoid, wide scarlet eyes scanning the situation. “I think these fellows are making trouble.”

“And?”

“The kind of trouble stopping us from having a home.”

“. . .oh.”

He was interrupted by the cracking barrage of Seraphic bullets, angelic rounds hissing to life as they pelted Sarakk’s carapace with a torrent of white metal. Some cracked through his shell, others _plinked _off his exterior.

A grumble of irritated sounds left the bug, along with thin rivers of deep black blood pouring from the timid wounds created from the shots. Still, he moved forward, lumbering towards one of the attackers who screamed, consumed by realization of ”this isn’t working at all.”

He grabbed one of the attackers by the head, squeezing and crushing the mass like a grape. “Stop, please.”

-*-

A pause.

Angel glared at his father, much like he’d glared at him most of his life. A life filled with seldom happy memories, and those that _were _joyous were typically absent of Henry. In those days, Angel could escape to be himself. In those days, he and his brother were friends. Now. . .

“Ya’ so fuckin’ stupid.”

Henroin growled. “Don’t disrespect me, boy.”

Angel flipped him off with all four hands. “If ya’ wasn’t such a coward I’d give ya’ a dickload of barrel ya’ motherfuckin’ _bastardo_!”

Charlie tossed the spider a cautionary look. “Angel. . .”

“No, shaddup! This cocksucka’ really thought this bullshit was gonna’ work!? You dim twippy mudderfucker! Ya’ like the rest of em’! All of em’! Ya’dunno _shit _‘bout me! You’ze a prattlin’ geezer and I’d sooner piss on ya’ then fuckin’ _work _for ya’!”

Henroin snarled. “Consider your next words _very carefully.”_

Angel summoned his other two arms, flipping Henroin off with those. “Fuck you.”

Charlie sensed the growing tension, eyes shifting to Anon. He was still in danger. . .

“Fine.”

Henry snapped his fingers. “Kill him.”

The spider expected to hear a few things. A gunshot, the splatter of brain, the shrieking, horrified screams of the princess and his ‘son,’ ensuing chaos. Instead what he heard was nothing.

He turned to one of the soldiers. “What are you _doing!?”_

Said pair of soldiers were staring. One pointed. “BOSS!”

Henroin turned to follow the direction, only to see one of his men careening towards him like a bullet. The large spider ducked, the body roaring over his frame, colliding into the summoned band members (still playing), a trail of blood and intestine leaking from the goon.

Gunshots followed, but not the ones Henroin intended. Indeed, ahead of him was the roar of. . . well, fuck him running, he didn’t rightly know _what _he was looking at. The only thing that his eyes processed was his men, or more specifically, his soldiers getting yanked apart like they were made of cheap clay.

“What-”

-*-

Opportunity.

That’s all you could think when you spied the ball of torso soaring over your head. You watched it smash into the stage with an unceremonious series of cracks and tumbles. Snapping your gaze back, you observed the one responsible. That thing, that gargantuan locust-like assailant. Despite the storm of responding gunfire, that Sarakk wasn’t going down. At all. In fact, it looked more agitated than anything, like someone who didn’t get their morning paper. Strong fella, huh?

Huh.

In the meantime, oh, the goons weren’t focused on you anymore. Didn’t take long for Charlie and Angel to catch this, either.

“BOSS!” the guards yelled. “WE GOTTA’ LEAVE!”

“FUCK YOU!” screamed Angel, seizing opportunity. At once, your spider’s arms summoned an artillery of machine guns, coated in their usual pink colorations. Henroin boggled, quickly snapping up one of his men and hoisting the meat shield in front of him as the spider unleashed a maelstrom of hot, molten _fucking-die-in-bullet-form_.

“Goddammit!” Henroin roared, shuffling away as his barrier of flesh quickly turned into unrecognizable chunks.

“This isn’t over!” he screamed, making a dash while some of his goons followed.

“What about the others!?” one said. Henroin wasn’t even listening, disappearing into the crowds.

“GIBBACK HERE YA’ COCKEATIN’ BITCHFUCKIN SHITHEAD!” Angel bellowed, preparing to rain hellfire into the sea of wealthy bodies, jumped on by Charlie.

“Angel NO!” she said, tackling him to the ground. “Mistake! Bad mistake! Do not do!”

He groused, pushing Charlie off, weapons vanishing. “Hgh! FINE!” Sitting up, Angel glanced around, seeing that _some _of the danger was gone. Some, because the crowds were now rushing away, seeking safety (that, or the alcohol and food was all gone). Those that stayed were clearly here for the show, or what remained of it.

Realization came over him, his mismatched eyes swinging to you. “Baby!” he yelled, jumping to his feet and rushing towards you. His frame collided into yours and Christ on a cross that’s _all you’ve fucking needed this entire night. _A wellspring of joyous relief overtakes you, the knowledge that, in this moment, Angel is safe, in your arms. You breathe him in, feeling his arms swing around you, an embrace that’s full of need.

“You’re okay!?” he says, breaking the hug, looking at you. His hands go over your face, checking you for injury.

“You’ze fine!? Did they hurt ya’? DID THEY!?”

“I’m fine,” you quickly say, lying. “Few hits to the head but I’m fine.”

You look _him _over. “What about _you?”_

He can’t manage a smile, sniffing. “M’night’s ruined.” He gestures at his attire, the wine stain seeding into the fabric.

“Fuckin’ look at dis’ shit!”

He blinks, remembering. “Where’s that skank!?”

You squeezed his shoulders. “Hey, hey, easy Angel, easy. We’re all right. We’re fine now.”

Charlie, back on her feet, comes to you, huffing a sigh of relief. “Anon?”

You nod. “Ma’am.”

“Uh, excuse me!”

A voice interrupts your regroup. It’s Vaggie, wearing a panicked expression. She’s gesturing wildly, pointing behind her.

“We still have a fucking problem!”

Oh, right. A hill of dynamite problem. Was that on a timer? You release Angel, trying to think.

“Can we get away in time?” you say to Charlie. “Downstairs?”

Charlie, realizing the problem too, boggled at it. “. . .that’s gonna take off the whole rooftop!”

Vaggie approached now, the others appearing as much of the crowds had run off. Husk, Niffty, and the Goat Bois were there, realizing the sudden situation.

“The fuck just happened?” commented Husk, looking around.

Niffty fluttered, staring at the carnage around her, a pile of torn mob bodies strewn about like yesterday’s dinner.

Like it was a goddamn afterparty, Hox approached too, waving. “Uh, hey,” he said, primarily to you.

“Nice party, buddy.”

Angel swore. “Can we fuckin’ stop YAPPIN’, we’ze about to get fuckin’ turned into SOS! And where’s dat grinnin’ fuck, chuckles, eh!?”

“Right here my arousing arachnid friend.”

Alastor coalesced like a shadow amidst the group, looking quite pleased with himself. Mimzy was there too, the singer you weren’t entirely familiar with, although the summoned band was gone. He swung his arm, laughing.

“What a charming little affair this has been, ahaha!”

Charlie hissed. “Alastor! This isn’t the time for jokes! We have to do something!”

Another laugh. “Right you are!” he said, gesturing beyond the group.

“Look, it’s ‘do’ and ‘something!’”

By that. . . he meant the bug and bun. Sarakk was visible, heaving in frantic, rage-induced pants, his breath clouding the air with steam, carapace coated with small injuries, caked with blood, wearing entrails of his foes, something that looked like it was once a spine clutched in a clawed hand. At his leg was Sarin, looking all too pleased, completely untarnished from the violent viscera.

Oh god, not _them._

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. Recollection hit them. Hard to forget a “face” like that.

Sarin approached in the meantime, offering a little finger wiggle. “Oh, hello!” she chirped, head tilting at an unnatural angle. “Nice to meet you all! Ak-Ak has told me _so _much about you! Right, Akky?”

“Hhhhhggggggghhhhhh.”

Charlie came forward, waving her arms. “Bup, timeout, stop! Look, before either of you do whatever you’re about to do, we have a problem!”

She pointed to the hill of explosives. “If _that _goes off, people will die! You included!”

Sarakk’s body twitched, antennae flagging. “Ghhhhg. What?”

His blank, blood-red eyes bore down on Charlie. “Who dies? She dies?” he said looking at Sarin.

Charlie hesitated. “. . .yes?”

Sarakk shuddered, a guttural, ugly sound rumbling from his throat, head spinning once in a slow, clockwise motion.

“Yes? **_No.”_**

The wrath-made insectoid turned, staring the gathering of explosives like it were another armada of enemies. Hisses and clicks dribbled from his cutting mandibles while he stomped over to it. All four arms spread and wove around the interconnected sticks of dynamite, dull click of timer winding down. His arms flexed, body grounded, and in one grand heaving motion, the locust lobbed the ball of explosives off the gala roof, sending it skyward. The explosives rattled as they soared into the air, thrown well and far away, distant enough they shrank until nothing more than a small black dot in the sky.

This was met with an abrupt silence save for the chaotic noises of Pentagram City. Then. . .

An eruption of fire shattered the sky. A furious explosion set off, save it was for _another _building. Sarakk had tossed the thing far enough it hit different skyscraper, but said structure suffered the resounding blow of Henroin’s “failsafe” plan. In moments, the upper half of the building groaned as flames devoured it, creating a cavernous wound in its side.

Alastor laughed.

“Hohohoh! A stunning display of fireworks to cap off the night, wouldn’t you say, friends?”

You gawked. Holy everloving shit. That bug could solve problems, huh?

You stared at the growling, titanic thing, a creature you now considered a dangerous foe, as you rightly should. Yet still. _Huh_.

“Oh dear,” said Sarin, watching the explosion. “Well. . .”

Her gaze returned to you and the crowd. “. . .so, we hear you have rooms available at your Hotel?”

-*-

A bag of cash and trinkets was tossed unceremoniously on a lavish table, bathed in the exterior pinkish glows of Pentagram City. A figure, reclined on velvet-skin couch, did not shift as it landed on his furnishing, eyes gazing instead at the small screen of his Hellphone.

“So, we’re even now.”

The voice that came with the bag was sharp and obnoxious, a harlot, like the many he was familiar with, the various tones he so often tamed. Again, the reclining figure said nothing, thumbing over his screen.

“Hey!” she barked. “You hear me!?”

Greedy, jealous, devouring eyes gazed at the screen, pausing at an image. He wore a grimace, fangs clenched together.

Heart-shaped glasses reflected the city’s light while his head shifted ever so slightly.

“Forgot your place.”

Annie blinked, leaning. “What? The hell you say?”

Finally, the figure moved, sitting upright and crossing a leg. His arms came to rest on the edge of his couch, staring at the other. He didn’t even look at the bag of valuables.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he intoned, voice warm but cruel.

The other blinked. “What!?”

Valentino kicked aside the parcel of cash, as though it worth naught more than the fabric it was carried in.

“Keep it.”

Annie’s visage went red. “Hang the fuck on, V, you can’t just-”

“Remember your place,” he interrupted with calm but alarming authority. “Some forget.”

He set his phone aside, screen upright.

“You’re going to get something else for me.”

There, on the upright phone, was a series of images. A social media account he once thought dead, a face he thought long gone.

And yet there he was again. Alive. _Married._

The image held two figures: Angel Dust and someone else. A shadow, a man, a creature that stole something of priceless value to Valentino. A thief.

And _nobody _could have Angel but Valentino.

[Nobody.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gOaOQwz7Vfo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's it ladies and gents! Oh, the cliffhangers, oh the drama! This concludes my intermission! 
> 
> The journey of You, Angel Dust and this nefarious new gang will continue in Series 3!


End file.
